


What Doesn't Kill You

by Teeelsie



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Asphyxiation, BAMF Clint, Character studies, Clint whump, Courage, Flashbacks, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Imprisonment, M/M, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective Clint, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovery, Sort of a fix-it, Survivor Guilt, Team Dynamics, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-06-08 18:10:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 61,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6867937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teeelsie/pseuds/Teeelsie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It wasn’t particularly surprising when they came for him, at least, not to Clint."</p><p>Following a brutal attack on the Raft, each member of the team deals with the aftermath as they regroup in Wakanda.</p><p> <br/>Post Captain America: Civil War</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dentalfloss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dentalfloss/gifts).



> This fic has a lot of potentially triggering content that isn't all explicitly tagged, some because I'm not a fan a million tags on a fic and some because I don't want to spoil the story. However, they are all listed in A/N at the end of the work, so if you have concern for your self care you can check there first, and/or feel free to ask me any questions in comments (or on tumblr).
> 
> Thanks as always to my awesome beta, KippyVee, who always makes my fic better. 
> 
> A gift for dentalfloss, who kindly gave me feedback when I sheepishly nudged this story her way and asked if she'd mind terribly reading it, and then encouraged me through the rest of it. Thank you so much! : D

 

 **Clint**  

  

He doesn’t react when they come for him, but it isn’t particularly surprising, either, at least not to Clint. The others though, they react frantically, shocked out of their lassitude, jumping up and yelling, pounding on the clear front wall of their cells. Well, not Wanda; they hadn’t heard a thing from Wanda since they put that fucking collar on her.

 

But it’s fine. It’s what he’d intended. Since the moment he saw that asshole Guard #3’s glance linger just a little too long on Wanda. Clint knows that look. It’s a look he’d seen on too many thugs in the countless dead-end towns that were the backdrop of his adolescence, and then more in the mercenary camps of his early ‘professional’ life. It’s a look that speaks of the powerlessness and rage that grows inside them when they look themselves in the mirror and know they come up lacking. And it’s the sinister glances that jump between them that Clint knows signal the start of trouble that always – _always_ – means someone is going to get hurt.

  

Those are the looks that tell Clint he needs to draw their attention - away from Wanda – and onto himself. So he baits them and taunts them and mouths-off to them whenever they appear, and more and more, they flash their dark expressions at Clint.

 

“What the hell are you _doin’_ , man?” Sam hisses, more than once. “Don’t fucking _antagonize_ them!”

 

But Clint ignores him and keeps right on making sure that if they’re going to take out their frustration over their miserable, impotent lives, it will be on him and no one else.

 

He thinks about Nat for a moment and he’s thankful that she’d signed the damn Accords and sided with Stark – and then gotten away after helping Steve and Bucky escape - because he knows that she would have seen right through what he was trying to do and would no doubt have found a way to subvert it. But she’s not here, and neither are Steve and Bucky, and he’s thankful for that, too – because at least that means there are three fewer people for him to worry about.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

When they come, there are five of them – admittedly, more than Clint had anticipated – but it’s not important. One, five, he doesn’t fucking care, as long as they don’t take Wanda. Or Scott or Sam, for that matter.

 

He’s seen eighteen different guards during the eight days that they’ve been here and Clint has cataloged each and every one. He’s watched their eyes, knows their habits, discerned their strengths and weaknesses. He’s not surprised that the five who are walking him away from the comparative safety of his cell are the five he has grown most wary of. He _is_ surprised, at first, that they don’t take him in the shackles he’d arrived in, but it only takes a second before realization dawns: they need plausible deniability, so that when Clint comes back looking worse than when he left, they can point to their own bruises as the reason. If he’s restrained, it’s a harder story to sell.

 

As they lead him away from the cell block, he thinks fleetingly of how pissed Phil would be. He can envision the expression – the one where his mouth forms a hard, frustrated line; the one that Phil gets when he’s shaking his head at what he perceives as Clint’s lack of self-preservation. Clint blinks his eyes shut a fraction longer than normal, holding onto the mental picture of Phil for just a second, and then he ruthlessly pushes all thoughts of his partner away, because he knows what is likely coming next, and he does not want images of Phil tied up with that.

 

He goes without protest because the last thing he wants to do is cause Wanda any distress, and even though she never utters a word, he knows her eyes are following them. He walks calmly and quietly, but his mind is moving frenetically… watching, assessing, planning. Clint knows he’s not at his best; a week or more without real exercise - without a sparring partner to keep him sharp - means that he’ll be at a strong disadvantage. He knows he’s unlikely to come out on top with five on one - much less a whole submersed prison full of more just like them - but fuck it if he’s going to go down without a fight. He hopes he’ll at least get the satisfaction of landing a few good blows. He’s pretty sure he will.

 

They lead him out of a back door in the cellblock – not the one Clint and his team had entered through, or that the guards use to come and go. It takes them to a dim corridor, and as they walk, Clint is uncomfortably aware that they see no one else along the way. As they move farther and farther from the cell block, down more empty hallways into an area that looks like it’s still under construction, he suspects that this isn’t going to be a typical prison beat-down.

 

“Stop!” #6 orders, as #3 turns his key into the lock on one of the doors in the deserted corridor.   Clint does as he’s told, but tenses, ready to go on the offensive.

 

The second they shove him into a mostly-empty office, Clint moves, ramming both elbows backward into the faces of Guards #2 and #17. They both drop and so does he, ducking a punch from #6 and sweeping the legs out from under #10. He lands exactly how Clint intended and he knows it will take a minute or more for the guard to get his wind back. Clint rolls with lightning speed across the small room and pops back up just in time to block a blow from #6 who pursued him across the office. In the blink of an eye, Clint grabs his shirt, pushes him over at the same time he’s shoving his knee into the guard’s solar plexus, then before he can fall, Clint strikes the point of his elbow into the meat of his back just below his scapula; #6 goes down in a heap, whining pitifully.

 

But it’s that fifth guard – and of course it’s that asshole #3, the one who had looked at Wanda in a dangerous way – that proves to be the ‘one-too-many’, when he steps away from the fray instead of toward it and pulls out a stun-gun. Clint sees it out of the corner of his eye, but can’t maneuver away because he’s too busy dealing with #2 and #17, who are both throwing punches at him with blood running down their faces and wearing ferocious expressions. He gets in a couple more good hits before the inevitable happens and he feels the burning jolts of electricity tear through his body; he drops like a rock.

 

His muscles won’t cooperate; they’re all locked and contracting and he has absolutely no control over his body. He’s lying on his side and he tries to curl into a ball – to make himself as small as possible – but the messages from his brain aren’t making it through to his limbs and he is completely exposed. It’s frustrating as hell, and all he can do is mentally brace himself when he sees boots moving toward him.

 

He expects them all to attack, but it’s only #3 who does; the others stand just out of his reach, though it’s not like he can actually move to do anything. The first kick – a steel-toe to the back – has to have been intended for his kidney; it lands too precisely not to be.   It is so brutal in its efficiency that it takes his breath away, but somehow Clint manages to roll onto his back in a desperate bid not to take another shot like it. But the kicks that follow to his gut and ribs aren’t really any less painful, and they leave him coughing and gagging, his whole torso feeling sharply broken.

 

He’s still expecting the others to join in - to rain down on him with blow after blow.  What happens next is much worse.

 

Almost before he can register it, #6 hauls him up and slams his chest down onto a nearby desk, viciously bouncing his head off the hard surface and causing an immediate tang of iron to flood his mouth. Two others grab his arms (#2 has his right arm; and he’s pretty sure it’s #10 that has his left), stretching them out to the side, and putting their weight into keeping him restrained. He kicks his feet wildly, but he can’t get any traction under his legs bent over like this. He is completely pinned and helpless; held down by the weight of three motherfuckers that each have at least 20 pounds on him. Clint’s strong (for a regular human being), but he’s not that strong.

 

He’s not one bit surprised when, seconds later, he feels rough hands pulling down hard on his pants.

 

Even knowing what’s coming doesn’t prepare Clint for the unbearable searing pain that rips through his body when he is violently breached with no preparation and nothing to ease the way. He stifles the full-throated scream that wants to come out, but can’t completely hold back the animal sound of agony that tears from his throat.

 

There is a hand pressing down on his back and a fist gripped in his hair, holding his head still. Pinned down like this, he can’t see much beyond the length of his arm, and the persistent bulge in the pants of #2. He is effectively immobilized and he knows it, but he never stops struggling – never stops fighting to rip free. He knows it’s largely hopeless, but Clint doesn’t have it in him not to keep fighting.

 

Behind him, #6 is battering brutally into him, but Clint doesn’t think about that. Instead he mentally repeats what his SHIELD training had taught him: that rape in captive situations is not about sex and arousal; it’s about power and control. It’s just like any other torture that agents might be subjected to – nothing more, nothing less.

 

He focuses his thoughts on that while his eyes focus on the arm he can see, watching his muscles cording and straining, skin stretched taut and slick with sweat, fingers scrabbling to grip at nothing. He pulls, pulls, pulls, as hard as he can, trying to free his arms, but the vice-grips that #2 and #10 have him in are unbreakable from this position.

 

Clint has a brief moment of small relief when the hand holding his head down disappears, but a second later, #3 grips his hair and ruthlessly yanks his head up and forward. He’s got a terrifying grin on his face as he starts to pull his mostly-hard cock out of his pants with his free hand.

 

“Put that thing anywhere near my mouth and I’ll bite it off,” Clint manages, certain that his own bloody smile is no less terrifying.

 

For a moment, Clint doesn’t think that’s going to stop him – and he sure as fuck will bite the guys prick off without a second thought about what they might do to him if he does – but then #3 blinks and leaves his dick in his pants. Clint sees a dark look flash across his face an instant before he smashes his fist into Clint’s eye. The room spins and Clint’s head bangs heavily back down onto the desk.

 

A second or an eternity later, #6 leans over his back, grunting and pushing his fetid breath into the side of Clint’s face, and he knows it’s not really possible – that there’re no real nerves there – but he imagines he can feel the come pulsing out and spreading deep inside his body. He thinks there’s a good chance he’s going to die here, but he still has the passing thought that he hopes this floating-fucking-prison screens their guards for STDs.

 

That thought is gone in an instant though, because the totality of #6’s weight is crushing Clint and there is urgency to the thought that, crucified as he is like this atop the desk, he can’t breathe. But he’ll take it, he thinks - he’ll happily pass out if it means that maybe he can wake up later and this will all be over. He doesn’t get that lucky though, because within seconds, he hears #3 bark, “Move it!” and his lungs expand again as #6 stands back up and yanks his dick out of him. It doesn’t seem right that it should hurt almost as much as it did going in, but it does.

 

Number 3 moves behind him and Clint has the fleeting thought that this time it won’t be as painful; he’s stretched now, and #6’s come will be easing the way, so it won’t be as painful. But he knows it will be just as bad.

 

“My turn, _superhero_ ,” #3 taunts him, pushing in so fast and hard that the desk slides several inches. Clint tries – he tries so hard not to – but he gasps in pain as #3 bottoms out and drapes himself over Clint’s back. “I’ll shut your fucking smart mouth up,” he whispers harshly in Clint’s ear, then straightens up and starts pounding into him, ruthless and unrelenting.

 

Clint’s body is in full fight or flight mode and he’s pouring out sweat. The hands holding his left arm slip just a bit and Clint reacts instinctively, quickly breaking the grip and half-pushing himself up from the desk. There are shouts and the others pounce, beating on him mercilessly until his arm is fully entrapped again. But even though the pummeling has left Clint stunned, he doesn’t stop resisting; never relinquishing his agency.

 

After too long, #3 abruptly pulls out of him and Clint has a moment of confusion before a dark-red and weeping cock appears in his sightline.

 

Dimly, he hears, “Hold his head up!” He’s aware that someone is panting from exertion, but Clint’s head is decidedly foggy now and he’s having trouble focusing, distinguishing one from the other.

 

A second later, someone grabs Clint by the hair, craning his neck back painfully so he can barely breathe. A hand works the cock in front of him and a moment later, Clint recognizes the split second of tightening ab muscles but can’t process quickly enough not to startle as thick white lines of come pulse onto his face. The first hits his right eye and the bridge of his nose, and he barely notices the stinging that makes his eyes water. The second lands just under his nose and drips past his lips – the bitter taste assaulting his mouth immediately. Clint tries to clamp his mouth shut, but #3 notices and grabs his jaw, viciously wrenching it open in time to aim the last pulse there, though half of it slides down his chin.

 

Clint closes his eyes for the first time in this whole ordeal as #3 rubs his cock along Clint’s cheek, smearing the last dribbles of his come there. When he opens them, he looks up to see #3 staring down at him with glassy eyes, a dangerous smile back on his face.

 

“Who’s next?” he asks with a feral grin, never taking his eyes from Clint’s.

 

A second later, Clint feels the grip on his right arm loosen, but before his sluggish mind can react this time, another set of hands grips him hard. He barely registers the start of the next assault.

 

Eventually, #3 turns slightly and picks up a chair that had been upended in one of the scuffles and drops down into it, his dick still hanging out and glistening. Clint watches him watch Clint, stroking his dick back to hardness as the others brutalize him as well.

 

He loses track of the number of times it happens; they each take a turn – he’s sure of that – but he thinks a couple of them go twice.   He’s also sure that he never, ever, for one second, stops resisting, fighting, pulling to get away. He can’t really register what his body is doing, doesn’t actually seem to be consciously controlling his muscles, but he knows he’s fighting and knows he won’t stop until they do.

 

What turns out to be the last one - #10, he’s pretty sure - wraps a thick forearm around Clint’s throat for leverage and almost suffocates him in the process. He briefly blacks out a couple of times before #10 comes with a punch of breath and finally releases his neck. Clint gulps down grateful lungs-full of air and when his vision clears, he sees #3 standing in front of him again, red-faced and leering as his fist pistons up and down his cock. He pushes his dick right up against Clint’s swollen left cheek as he comes, grunting and smiling as he watches the viscous fluid slide down Clint’s face again.

 

The room stinks of sweat and sex and blood, and when they finally release Clint’s arms, his legs give way immediately and he falls heavily to floor, a sticky pool of come and blood quickly appearing under him. He leans against the desk, unmoving, and closes his eyes. It’s quiet in the room for a few moments, except for the ragged sounds of a chorus of panting.

 

Clint hears someone finally move, but doesn’t open his eyes until his pants hit him in the face and fall in his lap. “Put ‘em back on,” #6 barks.

 

He glares up at #6, then unhurriedly reaches a shaking hand down and grabs his pants, bringing one leg of the material up and wiping at the come on his face the best he can. His effort is not entirely effective, since much of it is dried and crusty and it hurts to try to rub it off, so eventually he just leaves it. He slides his feet into the pants and tugs them up, then gathers every bit of determination he can and rocks forward so he can shift onto his knees and from there, push onto his feet. Each movement is excruciating and he has to stop for a moment and reach out with a hand on the desk to keep himself from collapsing back down. His hands are shaking so badly that he almost cannot grip the waistband, but eventually he is able to slowly and gingerly pull his pants past the wet slick of his ass and up and over his hips. When he’s done, he locks his knees and straightens up fully before turning and giving #3 - who is still standing on the other side of the desk – the best ‘fuck you’ grin he can muster.

 

“Get moving,” #17 orders him, giving him a shove and then quickly stepping back. There’s no way in hell Clint’s going on the offensive now – he used every ounce of his energy fighting against his restraints and he knows his body is beyond cooperation if he were to try – but he has a moment of pure satisfaction that, even in this state, they are still wary of him.

 

He’s not sure how he makes it all the way back to the cells of his own volition, but he does. And when they enter the outer-cell area, Clint somehow materializes one last bit of strength to stand straight and walk smoothly back to his cell. He can feel the dampness on the back of his pants - he’s sure that at least some of what’s there is dark red blood - and every step he takes is excruciating, but Clint will not give these guards the satisfaction of seeing him collapse in front of his teammates; and he won’t do that to his friends, either.

 

He’s pretty sure the others have some idea of what has happened to him, though, because out of the corner of his eye, he can see Sam scramble up from where he was sitting on the floor and bolt to the front of his cell, his eyes wild, his face horrified.

 

“ _Jesus…_ ” he hears Scott choke.

 

When they open his cell, one of them gives him a shove, and he falls hard onto the concrete floor, one arm twisted awkwardly beneath his body. A small sound of pain escapes his throat but he doesn’t try to move until he hears the guards clear the cell area, the heavy slide then dull ‘thunk’ of the door engaging, signaling their departure.

 

Clint rolls over as carefully as he can, releasing his arm. He bites back the groan of agony that wants to loose itself, pain flaring everywhere so that he cannot even tell where it originates. He’s pretty sure he can hear his teammates – agitated and yelling out to him - but he’s not particularly interested in answering. He thinks about trying to sit up, maybe get to the bunk, but suddenly his vision is tunneling down to a single tiny white spot. His last thought is a humorless, ‘fuck me… I couldn’t have passed out before?’ and then everything is gone.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

When consciousness returns, his entire body hurts – but it aches with the blunt throb of pain tempered by drugs. Thank god for drugs. When he manages to open his eyes, it is to what is clearly a hospital room, with no memory of how he got there, and Phil - a sitting sentinel by his side - wearing the familiar expression that Clint knows is just for him; the one that’s a mix of exasperation, worry and affection.

 

When he sees that Clint’s awake, Phil starts speaking immediately, while he steps up and slides an ice chip into Clint’s mouth. “We’re in Wakanda. Rogers and Natasha got you all out. T’Challa gave you refuge. The others are fine; no one touched them.” The words are tight with emotion, but rapid-fire, because he knows Clint, and knows that the first thing he’ll want is answers.

 

Clint swallows around the blessed relief of the ice and nods minutely, fighting the thick fog in his brain and the weight of his swollen eyelids, which are already pulling heavily. He puzzles for a few seconds over why T’Challa would give them refuge, then focuses his attention more solidly on Phil’s tone when he’d spoken. “I knew you’d be pissed,” he says, or tries to, but it comes out more of a harsh whisper. He fleetingly wonders if he’d needed a tracheal tube, but then his mind flashes on the memory of #10’s arm wrapped around his throat. He swallows again painfully and shoves the image aside. “I could see that look you get when you think I’m being stupid,” he adds, forcing a small, lopsided grin, despite the little stab of pain it causes on the left side of his face.

 

“I never think you’re stupid, Clint,” Phil sighs, giving him another ice chip. “But I’m surprised you gave it a thought.” Clint knows Phil’s not trying to make him feel bad about it; he’s just making an observation.

 

“Only for a second,” Clint admits. “Then I had to stop and put you outta my head before they started…” he slurs, his words trailing off, and he’s almost succumbed to sleep again when he realizes that Phil hasn’t responded. He manages to crack his eyes open in time to see the stricken look on Phil’s face before he can rein in his control again. Clint is suddenly uneasily aware that between the drugs and the pain and the exhaustion of his body trying to heal, his brain isn’t quite back online, because if it was, he never would have said that.

 

Phil swallows and seems to steel himself. “The others told me what you did,” he grits out, then pauses for a second. “I…” he starts again, his voice softer, then stops and turns his head, looking distantly across the room. When he looks back, Clint can see, even under the dim hospital lights, that Phil’s eyes are shining and damp. “I would never expect anything less,” his voice is rough and catching in his throat. He holds Clint’s gaze for a moment, then clears his throat and blinks rapidly, turning away again.

 

“Hey. I’m okay,” Clint croaks quietly, trying to reassure him.

 

Phil takes a deep breath and blows it out loudly, turning back once more, this time with fire in his eyes. “No, Clint… You have two cracked ribs, a severely bruised kidney, significant rectal damage that required suturing, a hairline fracture of your left orbital socket, tracheal swelling that indicates you’re lucky you didn’t suffocate, three broken fingers, multiple hematomas, contusions and abrasions all over your body, and you shoulder and arm muscles are torn all to hell. So, no… you’re really not okay. You are nowhere near okay,” he finishes tightly, his voice vibrating with rage.

 

Clint dismisses the anger because he knows it’s not aimed at him, and then catches up with the catalog of injuries Phil just recited. He glances with surprise down at this heavily bandaged hand, not at all remembering when they had broken his fingers. He tries to push himself more upright with his good hand, thinking it might make him look less… wounded, and maybe help take that expression off of Phil’s face, but he doesn’t get far, squeezing his eyes shut tight and wincing in a gasping breath at the burning pain that seems to consume his entire body.

 

When the pain fades to a dull roar, Clint opens his eyes to see Phil hovering above him, clearly wanting to help. Clint shakes him off and huffs a little. “Yeah, well, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?” he says, giving Phil a hopeful half-smirk.

 

Phil just stares at him, visibly trying to hold himself in check but not doing a very good job of it.

 

“I’m okay,” he says again. Because he is. Yes, his body is a mess, and yes, it will probably be weeks – or months - before he isn’t feeling the residual fallout from his dance with the guards. And hell, it might be years before what he’s sure will be a viciously vivid new crop of nightmares dissipates, but Clint’s got experience with mental minefields and he’s a master at compartmentalizing. He’s okay, because he’s safe and being cared for, and he’s done his job; his team is okay and that’s what really matters, after all. “It was the right call,” he adds with conviction.  

 

Phil stares at him for a moment, emotions flickering over his face too fast for Clint’s foggy brain to keep up with. “Get some rest,” he finally answers, and although the lines of his body are still rigid, he sounds more like the contained professional Clint knows him to be. “We’ll talk more later about how sacrificing yourself to a group of sadistic thugs is neither in your job description nor in your or your team’s best interest.”

 

Clint flicks him a small, indulgent smile. “You know you can talk all you want, but I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

 

Phil sighs deeply, the exhale audibly shaky. “I know,” he answers, his voice weary and resigned. “I know you would.” Clint sees him lean in and then feels the lightest press of lips to his forehead. “Go to sleep, Clint. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time I'm dipping my toe into this fandom universe so any and all feedback you're willing to give is greatly appreciated.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	2. Natasha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was originally only planned to be a one-shot, but then dentalfloss said something like "I wish we got some of the others' perspectives", so I said, well, maybe I'll think about a second chapter and write some of that and maybe begin to work toward recovery. Hmmm... 6 months and 60K words later... LOL! 
> 
> Anyway, each chapter is chronological within itself and takes place in roughly the week following Chapter 1 - though some of the chapters include scenes from the Raft. The various chapters run concurrent with each other and overlap, but don't generally directly cover the same events... arg... hard to explain, but I think it will be obvious what I'm trying to say if you decide to stick with this fic and read a couple of chapters. Some references in one chapter will make more sense when you read other chapters, so be patient - all will be revealed - LOL! 
> 
> Thanks again to dentalfloss for the read through and feedback on this chapter, and most especially to KippyVee, for being an awesome beta! : )

 

 **Natasha**  

 

She’s been tense since she’d found out that Ross sent them to the Raft – just plucked them off the tarmac in Berlin and dropped them in the middle of the ocean with no stops in between.  And now she’s annoyed with Steve because he’s given her the task of trying try to find their gear.  She just really wants to get eyes on Clint because she knows that he doesn’t do great with being confined and she’s worried about what the last eight days might have done to him.  But Steve’s still their leader so she acquiesces with a grunt of frustration, breaking off from him on the second level and heading for the their best guess as to where they may be keeping Ant Man’s suit, Falcon’s wings and Clint’s bow. 

 

She finds it all in the third place she looks – a tactical weapons armory – and steps over the unconscious bodies (really, for a fortified prison, it had been far too easy to take everyone out with gas before they breached) to get to them.  Lang’s suit looks fine, but Clint’s bow is broken in two and Falcon’s wings are disassembled on a table, like someone took them apart to try to see how they work.  She checks her watch; it’s time to get back to the jet.  If everything went off as planned, Steve and the rest of them should be heading there by now. 

 

She quickly scans the pile of gear and grabs Ant Man’s suit but leaves Sam’s kit, because it’s in too many pieces to carry easily, and really, it’s replicable.  She spares a half a second to morn Clint’s bow – it was his favorite – but grabs his quiver; it’s easily replaceable too, but she knows he’s going to be pissed about the bow so she wants to have something to offer him in consolation.   Forty-seven seconds after she enters the armory, she’s sprinting down the corridor, making for the quinjet.

 

When she arrives at the landing bay, she can see Sam just ducking inside and relief sweeps over her; everything’s gone as planned, then.  She sees Steve stick his head out – they make eye contact and he ducks back inside.  She trots up the rear hatch and her eyes do a rapid scan before going wide for a split second when she sees Clint, lying on a gurney covered in too much blood.  Her mind spins because it doesn’t make sense.  Did one of the guards somehow stay conscious and get a shot off?  It looks, though, more like he’s been beaten.  But there’s no time to stop and ask questions because they still have to get out of here and it’s not her job to take care of him; mission parameters say that right now it’s her job to fly them to safety. 

 

She straps into the pilot’s seat, and when Steve sits down next to her they don’t talk; it’s more important than ever that she stays mentally focused and get them out.  Once they’re in the air, she realizes that her hand has gone unconsciously to the small pendant around her neck and she’s rubbing the golden arrow with her forefinger; she drops her hand quickly back to the controls.  She’s not superstitious - either Clint will be okay or he won’t - and no sentimental piece of jewelry is going to change that.  

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Natasha is sitting alone by Clint’s bedside when Phil pushes through the door.  He looks composed - as always - but she recognizes the small signs of stress on his face.  His eyes fall first on Natasha for a split second but then seek out Clint, who is still unconscious.

 

“Oh, god,” he whispers and quickly steps up to the bed, reaching a hand out, but seemingly too afraid to touch.  Natasha stands and moves close to him, her arm leaning into his.  It’s a small comfort, but one she’s been craving for the last 24 hours.  She feels him press back into her and something eases in her chest.  She waits while he takes it all in, and when she hears Phil’s breath hitch a little a few seconds later, she looks up at him, seeing the distress in his face.  She looks back down at Clint and realizes that after staring at his injuries for the last several hours, she’s already become slightly numb to how awful he really looks.  That thought makes her nauseous.     

 

Phil reaches out and his hand hesitates near Clint’s head.  The medical staff cleaned him up as best they could, but there’s still dried blood visible in his hair.  Phil makes a wordless, pained sound in the back of his throat and finally touches, gently pushing some of the matted pieces away from his forehead.  The gesture is so fragile and so intimate, that Natasha takes a conscious step back, giving them space. 

 

A moment later, Phil sighs and turns toward her.  “What happened?” he asks calmly, though she can see the anguish in his eyes.

 

“Clint being Clint,” she answers, matching his tone.

 

“ _That’s not an answer_ ,” Phil snaps.  “And don’t you _dare_ blame him for this!” 

 

 _Oh._   That’s a surprise.  

 

Natasha cocks his head a fraction and raises an eyebrow at him.  “You know that’s not what I’m saying,” she answers him evenly.

 

Phil visibly sags and a moment later gives her an apologetic look.  “I know.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to…” He pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers for a few second and then looks back at her.  “Just, please, tell me what happened.  Who did this?”

 

Natasha nods her head a little and some of the tension in the room eases.  “The guards at the Raft.  According to Wilson, Clint intentionally baited them any chance he got.  Eventually, five of them walked him out of the cellblock and dumped him back in like this a little while later.”

 

“ _Five?_ ” Phil’s voice is choked by surprise.  He looks furious as he pulls out his phone, holding up a finger to Natasha and turning his back to her. 

 

She knows what he’s doing.  Phil is very good at focusing the stress of any given situation into practical competence and efficiency.   It’s a skill she’s watched him hone over the years.

 

“It’s Coulson.  I want the personnel records – with photographs - of every employee on the Raft,” he says, his words clipped and precise.  Natasha can hear tinny words of protest from the other end of the line.  “I know personnel files are confidential; I also know that kind of thing has never stopped you.  Get them.  _Now!_ ” he bites.  Natasha can’t hear the next words but whatever is said, Coulson’s relaxes a little bit.  “I know.  I’m sorry.  Just, please… it’s important,” he says much more softly and disconnects the call.

 

He slips his phone back in his pocket and turns back around.  “Who did they threaten?”

 

She gives him the subtlest nod of acknowledgment; they both know Clint very well.  “Wanda said one of the guards was eyeing her,” she tells him.  “Clint started in on them right after that.”

 

Phil blows out an audible breath.  “Clint being Clint,” he repeats her words with such aching sadness that her chest tightens again.

 

Natasha just nods.

 

“What have the doctors said?”  Phil sounds anxious.

 

“How much do you know?” she asks, wondering if she’ll have to be the one to tell him about the assault, and honestly hoping she won’t.

 

“I’m guessing it was you who told them I’m his medical power of attorney,” he says and she nods her affirmation.  “I was filled in by the doctors en route.  I know about… everything.  But the last I heard he was in surgery.”

 

“He’s been out of surgery for several hours, but he still hasn’t woken up.”  Natasha glances at Clint peevishly.  “They think soon.”

 

“His hand?” Phil asks worriedly, and Natasha sees him staring at the limb that is so completely wrapped in bandages that it’s impossible to tell what’s underneath. 

 

“The doctors think they saved his fingers,” she tells him, and she sees the tight line of his shoulders relax a little.  “T’Challa made sure he had the best microvascular and orthopedic surgeons in Wakanda.  It took seven hours, but they seemed pretty confident that with good rehab, it’s possible he could regain full use again.”

 

“ _Could?_ ” Coulson asks sharply.

 

“It’s hard to tell at this stage.  There are a lot of factors, not least of which is patient motivation.”

 

Phil’s relief is obvious.  “Well, if that’s all it takes then he has nothing to worry about,” Coulson says and the corners of his mouth curl up wryly.  Natasha finds herself returning the expression.

 

It fades quickly, though.  “And the rest of it?” Phil asks, and she can hear the dread in his voice. 

 

Natasha watches Phil carefully.  “They took samples,” she says slowly.  “They’ll get DNA results.”

 

Phil winces and shakes his head.  “That’s not really what I was asking, Natasha.”

 

She hesitates.  “What do you want me to say, Phil?  I know you don’t want platitudes,” she says, but her voice is gentle.

 

“No, I don’t,” Phil agrees, and then turns back to face Clint.  After a moment he sighs.  “It just seems to keep piling on, though, doesn’t it?” 

 

The misery in his voice and the truth of his words make Natasha’s eyes prickle and she blinks rapidly.  She watches with blurred vision as Phil, oh so carefully, picks up Clint’s good hand.  “If anyone can get beyond this, Clint can,” she tells him, the words tight in her throat.  It may be a platitude, but she knows he needs to hear it; _she_ needs to hear it.

 

Phil nods absently, but she can see him struggling.

 

“He’s going to need us both to be strong,” she adds, needing Phil to be strong for _her,_ too, but not wanting to put the extra burden on him.

 

But Phil knows her well and after a beat, she sees him drop his head for a second and then set Clint’s hand back down.  He turns to her and opens his arms with shining eyes that betray him.  “Come here,” he says.

 

She hesitates – this shouldn’t be about her, not with Clint where he is - but then Phil steps close and pulls her into a fierce embrace.  It’s only a few seconds before she feels her tears flowing and only a few more before she hears Coulson sniff as well.  People view her and Phil similarly – as though they’re both emotionless robots, unaffected, unfeeling – personas they’ve both carefully cultivated.  But it’s never been true.  Phil learned the hard way, over many years, that letting people see who you really are in this job can be dangerous; and Natasha had had to put up barriers to protect herself from an early age.  They both have deep wells of emotion that they tap just as often as anyone else; they just hide it very well.

 

Clint is their kryptonite. 

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Natasha sees Clint startle awake, then his body jerks and he gasps in pain, all the while looking around in confusion.  He relaxes when his eyes finally light on her.

 

“Nat,” he breathes - just a recognition that she’s there – and then closes his eyes again, settling back down. 

 

“Yes,” she answers, her own acknowledgment back to him.

 

“Are we still friends?” he rasps out, his eyes still closed but quirking a tiny grin on the right side of his mouth.

 

Natasha _tsks_ at him _._   “Don’t be an idiot,” she says softly.

 

His grin gets a little bigger, then turns into a grimace as the movement clearly hurts his face; she hears him grunt in pain.

 

“How are you feeling, Mishka?” she asks, laying a gentle hand on his forehead and then sliding it down his cheek.  He startles again and his eyes snap open, but then he relaxes and turns his face into her palm.  His body has been throwing out heat as it works overtime to heal itself, but she’s wondering if maybe he’s developing a fever. 

 

“Hey, has someone taken a look at Wanda?” he asks, the words gravelly, completely ignoring her concern.  His eyes open again, glassy but expressive with worry.  “Did that collar fuck her up?”

 

Natasha hadn’t seen the collar, but she’d heard about it in great detail from Lang, who rambled about it disjointedly when she (unofficially) debriefed him about what had happened on the Raft.

 

Natasha shakes her head slowly.  “I don’t think so.  As soon as Steve got it off of her, her powers came back.  She carried you to the quinjet.”  She sees his eyes skitter away uneasily for a second.

 

“But did anyone take a _look_ at her?” he presses.

 

“Yes.  The doctors checked everyone pretty closely when you got here.  She’s fine physically.”

 

“ _Physically?_ ” Clint croaks sharply.  “Is she… Did they…?” he stammers, the anxiety causing his rough voice to rise a couple of decibels, and he winces with the pain of it.

 

“No, they didn’t,” Nat quickly reassures him and he visibly relaxes.  “But she refuses to leave her rooms.  She’s… angry.”

 

He smiles and closes his eyes again.  “Good,” he murmurs.  “She’s amazing when she’s mad.”

 

“Careful, Clint.  You’ll make Phil jealous,” she says with teasing in her voice.

 

Clint huffs, but doesn’t say anything.

 

It had been… interesting… to watch as Clint and Wanda had developed a relationship after Sokovia.  Clint was generally slow to trust or bring new people in close to him, though once he did, he never let go.  But his bond with Wanda was forged quickly, by fire, the seal cemented with the lingering guilt over what had happened to her brother.  His feelings seemed to be half-paternal, half-fraternal, and if Natasha been a different person, she might have found _herself_ jealous.  But she knew that a lot of it was that Clint could see himself in Wanda and Pietro – young orphans, at the mercy of adults who hurt and exploited them – and she'd seen his protective instincts kick in from the minute they’d all come to understand just exactly what the Maximoffs had been through. 

 

“Tell her,” Clint starts, but the words catch in his abused throat and he stops and tries to clear his throat, then starts over.  “Tell her I said to stop being a punk and do something.”  His voice doesn’t sound any better this time.

 

Natasha cocks her head and looks at him curiously.  “That’s very… understanding of you.  I can see why she likes you so much,” Natasha deadpans.

 

Clint shakes his head, closing his eyes again.  “She hates being treated like child.  She’s strong, but sometimes she needs a push.” 

 

Natasha furrows her brow; he looks exhausted already.  “Do you want me to ask her to come?”

 

“Nah,” Clint answers, the word comes out barely a whisper.  “She needs to work things out for herself.”  Each word is an effort and he tries to clear his throat again.

 

Natasha reaches out and runs her fingers through his hair, lightly scrubbing his scalp; he gives her a small lopsided grin and hums softly.

 

“What about you, Mishka?  How’re _you_ doing?” she asks tenderly.

 

Clint doesn’t open his eyes.  “Oh, you know me, Nat,” he answers her lightly.  “I’m good.  I’m always good.”

 

“No, you’re not,” she says quietly. “That’s just what you want everyone to believe.”  She grips his hair loosely and gives his head the tiniest little shake.  “The truth, Clint.”

 

This time he does open his eyes and he sighs.  “I’m okay.  Everything still hurts like a sonofabitch, but I’ll heal.”

 

“And your head?” she asks, scratching again, this time a little harder for emphasis.

 

Clint looks down, the fingers of his good hand picking at the blanket, but she sees him still them intentionally.  “It’s fine,” he flicks her a quick glance up through his eyelashes.  “They said it’s only a mild concussion.  Barely have a headache anymore,” he tries to deflect. 

 

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about,” she tells him.  She gives his head another little shake.

 

She’s the only one who can really get away with this – who can push him to admit to what’s going on in his head.  Even Phil tends to talk around the real issues with Clint.  But he needs someone to call him on his crap, and that’s been Natasha’s job since Budapest. 

 

Clint sighs in resignation and finally looks her square in the eyes.  “I’m fine,” he insists.  “Just… need some time for things to fade a little.  But I know it will.”  She gives him a skeptical look.  “I’ve been through plenty of shit in the past, Nat, you know that.  This isn’t any worse than Loki or Sri Lanka… or the Swordsman,” he adds reluctantly, his eyes darting away uncomfortably for a second.  Natasha blinks, surprised he said that.  “It’ll be fine.  _I’ll_ be fine,” he finishes.

 

She doesn’t see any of his tells, so he must at least _believe_ what he’s saying.  She’d be more convinced if his eyes didn’t look so damn _haunted._    

 

AAAAAAAA

 

“Are you going to tell me where you went?”  Phil asks her quietly as she hands him a large cup of coffee.  Clint is asleep on the bed and Phil is in his usual spot in the chair next to him.  Clint looks somehow worse than he did before she'd left two days ago; the bruises are darker, and while some of the swelling in his face had gone down, he looks gaunt now, his skin sallow.

 

She looks at Phil over the top of her own coffee cup as she takes a sip but doesn’t say anything; she knows he’s not actually expecting an answer.

 

"He moped the entire time you were gone, so wherever it was, I hope it was productive."

 

She shrugs.  “Time will tell.”  She takes another sip.  “How’s he doing?”

 

Phil glances at Clint, then stands and walks toward the door, gesturing for her to follow.  Once they get outside where they won’t risk waking Clint, Phil slumps tiredly against the wall and runs a weary hand down his face.  “Could be worse,” he tells her. 

 

She knows he’s trying to be positive, but he looks defeated.  She’s more interested in the unvarnished truth anyway so she raises an eyebrow at him pointedly.

 

Phil sighs.  “The circulation in his fingers looks good, so the doctors are optimistic.  They’re not too happy about the fact that he took his catheter out by himself earlier today…” Natasha’s other eyebrow rises to join the first, “because he wanted – _needed_ – a shower and wouldn’t take no for an answer, which I don’t blame him for one bit and can’t believe it didn’t occur to me.”  Phil runs a hand down his face again, _“Fuck!”_ he whispers fiercely, self-recrimination audible.

 

“Phil…” Natasha starts.

 

He shakes his head and waves her off.  “But they’re pretty sure normal kidney function is returning so they let it go.  The rest of his injuries are more or less as expected, I suppose.  It goes without saying that he’s in a lot of pain – his ribs, his throat, his face, and… everything else - but the idiot is only using about a third of the allowable dosage from his morphine pump.  He keeps forgetting about his shoulders.  The pain… well, you know… it wears him down.  The rest of it… I don’t know,” he stops and takes a long drink from his coffee. 

 

“He’s having nightmares - which isn’t a surprise,” he continues.  “But he’s doing that trick where he forces himself awake out of them nearly every time, so he’s not getting very much R.E.M. sleep, and he’s exhausted.  He says he wants to get the hell out of here, but the doctors won’t release him until he starts eating – which he still hasn’t – so he’s getting very… edgy.  The only thing keeping him in that bed is the fact that he has nowhere to go if he leaves, but realistically, I’m not sure how much longer even that will stop him.  And it goes without saying that he’s sick to death of me or anyone else trying to help him, so he’s lashing out any time anyone so much as hands him a cup of water.”

 

Natasha consider all of that for a moment.  “Which one of those things should I be worried about most?” she eventually asks.

 

Phil shakes his head.  “I honestly don’t know.”

 

Natasha studies him critically:  sees the deep lines on his brow and at the bridge of his nose; the dark bruising smudges under his eyes; the rumpled suit that Phil would normally not be caught dead in.  “You don’t look like you’re getting much more sleep than Clint is,” she observes.

 

Phil sighs.  “I’m fine, Natasha,” he says, making a dismissive gesture.

 

She could challenge him on that, but she wouldn’t bother, because by comparison to Clint, he _is_ fine.  “Tell me what I can do that will help.”

 

Phil considers for a moment and then sighs deeply.  “Well, if you can get him to eat something it would be great because I'm not getting anywhere with that.  If he would eat we could get him out of here and it might help his state of mind or help him sleep better.  And maybe…”

 

“Yes…?” she prompts him.

 

“You know Wanda better than I do, could you talk to her?” he asks hopefully.  “She hasn’t been by to see him yet and it’s making him anxious.  I’ve told him that she’s fine, but you know Clint – he’s not going to relax about it until he sees her with his own eyes.”

 

“Of course,” she tells him immediately, then smiles ruthlessly.  “I’ll bring a little of Clint’s tough love.”

 

Phil snorts at that.  “Thanks,” he says with clear relief and then takes another long drink of his coffee. 

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Natasha tracks Wanda for a couple of hours as she lurks around the hospital floor where Clint’s room is - never getting any closer than the nurses station down the hall - then wanders around the Palace compound.  She’s waiting, leaning against the door with her arms crossed, when Wanda comes around the corner toward her quarters.  “Clint said I should tell you to stop being a punk and do something,” Natasha says with no preamble.  “You know, like maybe go see him. But that last part is me talking.”

 

Wanda stares at her for a few seconds, then uses her powers to unlock and open the door, no doubt hoping Natasha would fall on her ass.  Natasha gives her an ‘as if’ look and Wanda ducks her eyes.

 

“Are you all keeping tabs on me now?” Wanda bites out, pushing past her into the room.

 

“Yes,” Natasha answers, turning to follow; the ‘of course’ implicit in her tone.  She’s pretty sure they’re all keeping tabs on each other.  “What would you think we would do?”

 

“I do not need you or anyone else monitoring me!” Wanda snaps.

 

Natasha scoffs.  “Are you going to pretend you didn’t just spend the last hour checking up on where Steve and Sam and Scott were?  And that you didn’t _not_ visit Clint at the hospital before that?”  Wanda’s face looks caught out and then morphs back into anger again.  “We care about you, too, Wanda.  We’re your teammates.”

 

“You did not look like our teammate when Clint was letting you get the best of him,” she throws out acerbically.

 

“Mmm,” she nods.  “You were right.  He was pulling his punches,” she says, ignoring the rest of it.

 

Wanda huffs with irritation and turns her back, retreating to walk further into the room. 

 

“Look, Wanda, I know you’re angry, but your friend is lying in a hospital bed…”

 

She spins around.  “Because he is _a fool!_ ” she lashes out.  “I never asked him to do what he did!” she continues, fists clenched by her sides.  “I don’t know why he would do something so stupid!”

 

Natasha snorts.  “We are talking about the same person, right?  Clint Barton?  Stubborn son-of-a-bitch with an overly developed protective streak?  Thinks he _owes you_ for some stupid reason?  _That_ guy?” her tone has gotten more derisive as she speaks.  “What did you think he would _do_ , Wanda?” she narrows her eyes at the young woman.  “Sit back and let them _take_ you?  Is _that_ what you wanted?”

 

Wanda’s eyes flash and her rage spikes, red flickering from her hands, but it dissipates before anything happens.  Clint’s words echo in Natasha’s mind: _‘…she’s amazing when she’s mad…’_

 

Natasha is unruffled.  “You need to get over yourself and go see him.  He needs to see that you’re okay,” she says evenly.

 

“Surely someone has told him I am unharmed,” she says, mocking in her voice. 

 

“He won’t stop worrying until he sees for himself.”

 

“He should not worry so much – maybe if he didn’t he would not be where he is,” she answers, and Natasha can see angry tears welling in her eyes.

 

Natasha cocks her head.  “Again.  You have _met_ him?” 

 

“Your words are easy,” Wanda spits at her, furious tears now spilling down her face.  “But he is not where he is because of _you!_ ”

 

“He’s not where he is because of _you,_ either,” she snaps, her frustration growing.  “Save your anger for the bastards who deserve it – not for your friend who put himself between you and them.  _Grow up,_ Wanda!” she finally barks.

 

Wanda takes an ominous step toward her, red tendrils dancing from her fingertips.  _“I am not a child!”_ she yells.

 

Natasha takes her own step forward, unintimidated by the magic.  _“Then stop acting like one!”_ she yells back. 

 

They stare daggers at each other for a few moments and Natasha mentally chides herself for letting her emotions get the better of her; damn Clint and his kryptonite ways.  She closes her eyes and takes a deep, calming breath, and when she opens them, she can see that Wanda has relaxed fractionally, too.   

 

“You’re right,” she tells Wanda, coolly, fully back in control again.  “You’re _not_ a child.  So stop hiding like one and go see him.  He needs you.”  With that, she turns on her heel and leaves, not giving Wanda the chance to respond. 

 

AAAAAAAA

 

When Nat breezes into his room like she hadn’t just disappeared for a couple of days, Sam is on the right side of Clint’s bed trying to fluff his pillows and Clint would swat him away like a pesky bug, but his right hand is his bad one and his ribs still hurt too fucking much to twist around to do it with his left.  

 

“Don’t coddle him,” Natasha tells Sam as she steps up to the other side of Clint’s bed.  “He hates to be coddled,” she adds, giving Clint a wry smile.

 

Clint ignores that.  “Where’ve you been?” he asks, trying to sound casual.  He’d been sitting on an uneasy feeling while she was gone, but he doesn’t need to bother her with that. 

 

“I told you.  I had an errand,” she answers vaguely.

 

Clint somehow manages not to roll his eyes but it’s a close thing.  Natasha tells him more than she tells anyone else, but if she’s not in a mood to share, he knows he won’t get anything out of her.  He doesn’t bother to press her any further.

 

She smirks at him and then looks over at Sam.  “How’s he doing?”

 

Sam glances at Clint and then back to her.  “He’s not exactly the best patient in the world,” Sam answers, a hint of exasperation in his voice.  “He still hasn’t eaten anything and he can’t get out of the bed until he does.”

 

“I can get out of the bed…” Clint mutters petulantly.

 

“He’s not _supposed_ to get out of bed,” Sam clarifies.

 

“He’s terrible about following doctors’ instructions,” Natasha tells Sam.

 

“You’re telling me,” Sam complains.  “The idiot unwrapped the bandages on his hand yesterday.”

 

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Natasha replies back.  “One time-”

 

“I’m right here, you know,” Clint growls sharply, feeling surprisingly irritated at the banter going on over his bed.

 

Natasha looks calmly down at him.  “Why aren’t you eating?” she asks, very nonchalantly, as though he’d fall for that trick.

 

He looks her hard in the eye.  “Not. Hungry.”  He’s pretty sure Nat and Sam know that’s a lie and he closes his eyes to avoid their annoying concerned glances.  It’s quiet for a long moment and he hopes that if he keeps his eyes closed, maybe they’ll think he’s gone to sleep and leave.

 

Eventually, it half-works.  “Okay, well, since you’re here now, Nat, I think I’ll take off for a little while.  Later, Barton,” Sam says, and Clint hears him shuffle toward the door. 

 

Clint starts to lift his hand to give a small wave but aborts at the deep ache in his shoulder.  He grunts in frustration and then reluctantly opens his eyes to, not surprisingly, find Nat staring at him again.  She has a way of watching him that would be disconcerting if he didn’t know her so well and know that it’s grounded in affection.

 

She raises an eyebrow at him.  “You going to tell me why you’re not eating?”

 

Clint raises an eyebrow back at her.  “You going to tell me where you went?"

 

The stand-off only last a few seconds before Natasha sighs and puts her fingers lightly on the top of his hand.  He twists his hand around and grabs hers.  “Come ‘ere,” he whispers, giving her a small tug.  She doesn’t hesitate at all, carefully climbing onto the bed and laying on her side facing Clint.

 

“Phil’s worried about you, you know,” she tells him softly, as she lightly traces the bruises on his arm.

 

Clint sighs and looks at the ceiling.  “Phil worries.  There’s nothing new about that.”

 

“Are you saying he shouldn’t be?” 

 

When Clint drags his eyes back to her, he sees her searching his face with intent; he shrinks back at the deep-seated worry he sees in her eyes.  “Nat…” he says uncomfortably, and then swallows thickly.

 

“ _Clint_ ,” she replies.  “Are you saying he shouldn’t be?” she repeats, her voice still soft.

 

“I’m saying…” he flicks his eyes to the tray of uneaten food on the bedside table and then back to her - then mentally kicks himself for doing it.  “I’m saying, I’ll be fine,” he says, pretty sure he even means it.

 

Natasha watches him for several seconds and Clint holds her gaze.  He has the impression that she’s working very hard not to look at the food tray herself, but eventually she gives him an almost imperceptible nod.  “Okay,” she tells him.

 

Clint gives her a small, appreciative smile, then twines his fingers with hers and closes his eyes.  He’s really fucking glad Nat is safe and back from wherever the hell she’s been.  He may not sleep well, but at least now he’ll sleep a little easier.     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I always love to hear your thoughts! : )
> 
> Next up: Steve


	3. Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is already tagged rape/non-con, but to be safe, I’m including an additional warning on this chapter for oblique reference to child sexual abuse.
> 
> Thanks once again to dentalfloss for the feedback on this chapter and KippyVee for her beta skills.

 

**Steve**

 

Steve opens the lock on Wanda’s cell, horrified by the barbaric restraints and fearful that whatever that collar is around her neck, it might be hurting her.  Her eyes look frantic and he can tell she’s trying to talk – to tell him something – but there’s no time.  “In a minute, Wanda,” he says, working to release her, “we need to hurry.”  As he unbuckles the straightjacket, he tries to speak soothingly to quell her obvious agitation.  “I need to go free the others, but I’ll be right back to help you out of here,” he reassures her and then, after considering the device for a brief moment, simply snaps the collar around her neck. 

 

With that he bolts toward Sam’s cell – he’d spotted his friend first, but had been sidetracked over to Wanda’s cell when he’d seen what they’d done to her.  He’s halfway across the cellblock toward Sam when his frantic yelling and gestures make Steve turn and look.  And then he sees Barton – lying in a pool of blood on the floor of his cell and so pale that Steve’s afraid he may be dead.

 

‘No…. nonononono’, his mind shouts at him and his normally steady hands fumble with the mechanism to unlock Clint’s cell. 

 

In a flash, Steve is kneeling on the cold, concrete floor, next to Clint’s prone and unconscious body.  “Clint?” he prompts urgently, his fingers pressed lightly on his friend’s neck.  Barton’s pulse is weak and thready – but at least there, thank God.  His breathing is shallow and his body is cool to the touch – shock, then.  More disconcerting, though, is the visible pool of blood that he’s lying in, because Steve can’t see the wound he apparently has on his back.  “Clint, can you hear me?” he asks quietly.  He gently puts his hand on Clint’s shoulder, hoping his friend will react, but he gets no response.

 

There’s dark bruising on Clint’s neck and he seems to be wheezing a little and there’s so much blood everywhere:  on Clint’s face; in his hair; all over his shirt; and of course, there’s the fresh pool on the floor.  Steve’s rage spikes as he tries to rouse his friend.  This kind of thing is not supposed to happen here; it may be a prison, but there are laws and conventions that govern how prisoners are treated.  But really, most of Steve’s anger he reserves for himself because he knows that this is not anyone’s fault but his own.  If he hadn’t caused the splinter in the Avengers, if he hadn’t called Clint into the whole mess, if he hadn’t left them at the airport to be caught while he flew safely away with Bucky… too many ‘ifs’ that all point to Steve being responsible for his friend’s current condition.  

 

Steve has to shove those self-recriminations aside for now though because there are more pressing things for him to worry about.   With all that blood coming from somewhere on his back, he’s concerned about the possibility of spinal injury and he’s just starting to try to figure out how to move Clint – because regardless, they _do_ have to move him - when he sees warm, red tendrils gently wrap themselves around Clint’s body and lift him off the floor.

 

Steve jerks his head around to see their young teammate standing just outside of Clint’s cell, hands raised as she works her magic, a thunderous expression on her face.  “ _Wanda!  Be careful!_ ” Steve cautions, then quickly scrambles to his feet.  She’s already got him moving out the cell door and Steve rushes over to Sam’s cell and quickly unlocks it.  “Hold him steady,” Steve yells over his shoulder to Wanda, then finally makes his way over to the last cell – Scott’s.  “Don’t jostle him!”

 

“ _I have him_ ,” Wanda bites out, sounding like maybe she’s a little offended that he would question her abilities, but her hurt feelings aren’t high on Steve’s list of concerns when he’s worried about the possibility of yet another paralyzed teammate.

 

Scott darts out of his cell as soon as the door opens and bolts over to where Sam is holding another door for all of them to pass. 

 

“Which way?” Sam asks as Steve pushes past him.

 

Steve doesn’t answer, just leads the way and the others fall into step behind him; Steve, then Clint being ‘carried’ by Wanda, then Scott, and Sam covering the rear.  Everyone is tense and quiet, including Steve, even though he’s pretty sure they’re not going to encounter any resistance.

 

Within seven minutes, they’re safely ensconced on the quinjet, and Steve nervously checks his watch; twenty seconds later he breathes out in relief when he pokes his head out and sees Natasha running across the landing deck carrying Scott’s suit and Clint’s quiver.  Steve watches as she sprints up the ramp and does a quick assessment – he knows who she’s looking for – and he sees her eyes flicker wide for a split second at the sight of her partner.

 

She takes one faltering step before she darts for the cockpit. 

 

Steve follows her and straps into the co-pilot’s seat; fourteen more seconds and they’re in the air.

 

Neither of them says a word beyond what they need to communicate to fly, their focus and attention on getting them out of there as quickly and cleanly as possible.  But as soon as he’s fairly certain they’re in the clear and not being tracked, Steve unbuckles without comment and heads to the back of the quinjet to check on Clint and the others.

 

He finds Clint on a gurney, stripped of his bloody clothes, blankets covering him to his waist and some sort of IV already dripping into his arm.  Sam is working to gently clean the blood off his face, and Wanda and Scott are hovering nearby.

 

“How is he?” Steve asks, unable to take his eyes off of the large discoloration on Clint’s chest and a huge bruise that seems to wrap around his side and disappear into his back.  When you’ve got super-serum in your blood, and work with gods and men who wear flying metal suits, it’s easy to forget how fragile a wholly-human teammate really is.    

 

Sam flicks a quick glance at him and then focuses back down at his work.  “Not very good.  He’s lost a lot of blood.  He might have internal bleeding – hard to tell.  His fingers are pretty mangled,” he gestures down at Clint’s right hand, and Steve grits his teeth at the large wrapping that Clint’s hand is encased in.  “He needs a real doctor, Steve.  _Soon._ Because even if I can keep him alive, there’s nothing I can do for his hand and he could lose a couple of fingers.”

 

Steve nods gravely at the implications; he has an idea of how devastating that would be for Clint.  “What…” he stops and swallows thickly.  “What happened?” he asks, guilt and regret worming their way deep inside of him.

 

“What does it _look_ like!” Scott barks, and three sets of surprised eyes turn to where he stands at the end of the gurney.  “They beat the shit out of him and they… _Jesus Christ_ , they _raped_ him!” Scott spits out through clenched teeth.

 

Steve’s eyes go wide for a moment and he looks back down at Clint, remembering the pool of blood he’d found him in.  “Are… are you _sure?_ ” he asks, because his brain is reeling and he’s sure that can’t be true.

 

“I'm sure,” Sam grimaces uncomfortably.  “He's pretty torn up and I had to pack the wounds to try to stop the bleeding.  And I’ve... I’ve cleaned more than just blood off of his body," he says more quietly.

 

Steve almost laughs out loud at his naïveté, thinking that Clint might have had a spinal injury.  He’s honestly not sure if this is better or worse – either way it’s horrific.

  

No one says anything for a few moments, but then Steve gathers himself a little, wipes a hand across his mouth and clears his throat.  He turns back toward Sam.  “I’ll make sure they’re ready for us when we get there,” he tells them, his eyes flicking back down at Clint for a second.

 

“Where is that, exactly?” Sam asks him calmly, dropping his head back down and getting back to work cleaning the blood off of their friend.

 

“Wakanda,” he says, and this time all eyes snap to him.  “T’Challa has offered us refuge.  We’ll be safe there for now until we… get this sorted out.”  He turns to go.  “Come get me if anything changes.” 

 

AAAAAAAA

 

“Tell me,” Natasha says as Steve enters the cockpit but doesn’t sit down; her eyes never stray from the instruments.

 

“Natasha…” Steve says, and whatever she hears in his voice, it’s enough to make her turn and look at him, holding his gaze.

 

“Tell me,” she demands again.

 

“It’s not good.  He’s been beaten; one of his hands is in bad shape and Sam thinks there may be internal bleeding.  But they also…” he pauses and Natasha cocks her head the tiniest fraction, waiting for him to continue.  “They also assaulted him,” he finally forces himself to say; there’s no hiding from this.

 

There’s a beat of silence before Nat says, “You mean they raped him,” her voice low and dangerous.

 

Steve closes his eyes and nods his head minutely.  “Yes,” he acknowledges, his voice barely a whisper.

 

He hears Natasha spew a vicious litany of words in Russian, too fast for him to understand, and when he opens his eyes, she’s facing the front again – in control once more - but he can see her grip flexing hard on the steering column.  Steve feels like he should say something to her but has no idea what words could possible make the situation better, so instead he just sits down and straps into the co-pilot seat again, then picks up the radio to make sure they’ll have the medical help Clint will need waiting when they arrive.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Three hours later – still a couple of hours out – Steve finally breaks the silence.  “I’m going to go get some coffee.  Do you want some?”

 

Natasha shakes her head a little.  “No, thanks.”

 

Steve gives her a concerned look.  “Natasha…” he starts.

 

“I’m good,” she answers, cutting him off and daring him with her voice to challenge her.

 

Steve pauses then tries again.  "If you want a break I can fly or we can put it on autopilot," he offers.

 

“Okay,” he says when she doesn't respond.  “Be right back.”  He unbuckles and walks out of the cockpit, stretching his arms over his head to try to work out some tension.  Near the back of the quinjet, in the small med-bay alcove, Wanda is still standing next to Clint, while Scott is curled up in a seat, looking like he’s not having much success if he’s trying to sleep.  There’s a small galley kitchen along the wall and Steve sees Sam there, staring at the coffee pot, apparently trying to will it with his mind to work faster.  Steve reaches up and grabs a mug from a cupboard.

 

“How’s he doing?” he asks quietly.

 

Sam looks over at Clint, then back at Steve and shakes his head a little.  “Still unconscious.  He needs a _real_ medical facility, Cap.  Are we almost there?”

 

“Couple more hours,” Steve says and Sam makes a wordless, frustrated noise.  A second later the coffee pot clicks off and Sam grabs it immediately, pouring them each a cup.  “So what happened back there, Sam?” he asks as his friend hands the now-full mug back to him.

 

“Those fucking guards,” Sam starts, closing his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath and shaking his head.  “And Barton… I don’t know.  He just kept goading them - every time one of them would come in.  I kept telling him to knock it off, but…” he shakes his head again.  “A couple hours before you showed up, five of them just came and walked him away.  Threw him back in his cell an hour later – like that,” he says, tipping his head sideways toward the gurney, but keeping his eyes steady on Steve’s face.

 

“Why would Clint-”

 

“Who was he protecting?” Natasha’s voice startles them from the doorway before Steve can get the rest of his question out, and they both turn toward her.

 

Sam furrows his eyebrows at her in confusion for a second.  “What?  Nobody.  I mean, we were all in our cells-”

 

Natasha cuts him off.  “What happened before he started messing with the guards?” she asks impatiently.  “Which one of you did they threaten?”

 

Sam shakes his head and flicks a confused look at Steve, opening his mouth to answer, when Wanda speaks from across the bay.

 

“Me,” she says decisively, and they all turn toward her.  She stares at Clint as she talks, her hand hovering over his chest, as though she wants but is afraid to touch him; her magic isn’t visible.  “One of the guards looked at me,” her voice is shaky with a mix of fear and anger.  “…like he was going to…” she stops abruptly. 

 

Steve looks at Sam, who gives his head another short, confused shake.  “I didn’t… I didn’t see that,” Sam says, obviously angry with himself.

 

“I was helpless with that _thing_ on my neck,” Wanda hisses, finally looking up at them. “But Clint saw…” her eyes go back to her friend. 

 

“ _Jesus,_ ” Steve swears, frowning and rubbing his forehead with his fingers.

 

Natasha just nods knowingly, then reaches out and takes the coffee from Steve’s hand.  “I changed my mind,” she says, and ducks back toward the cockpit. 

 

“She okay?” Sam asks quietly, after she disappears from view.

 

Steve stares through the empty doorway wondering that himself.  “Hard to say,” he answers eventually.

 

Sam nods and stares into his cup of coffee for a moment before blowing out a deep breath and looking back up.  “Okay.  Listen, just… get us there as fast as you can, will ya?” Sam urges, before handing Steve his cup and reaching for another.

 

After one more reluctant glance over at Clint, Steve nods grimly and turns back to the cockpit to see if he and Natasha can squeeze anything more out of the engines.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

All of them end up at the Wakandan hospital, crowded into a small corridor as they wait anxiously for any word on Clint.  Steve starts to feel useless and then edgy, as his guilt gets the better of him.  When he realizes he’s about to snap at Lang – who is coping in his own way with constant stream of consciousness observations - he turns to Natasha and quietly asks her to make sure the others are seen to – examined and settled in the accommodations T’Challa had offered them.  Natasha hesitates and Steve can see she is going to argue with him, obviously reluctant to leave Clint.

 

“Natasha, please,” he entreats.  “It’s probably going to be hours before there’s any real word.  And… I’m going to call Coulson and I don’t really want an audience for that conversation,” he adds, sliding his eyes over to the rest of the group and then back. 

 

“I’ll call Phil,” she answers with resolve, crossing her arms over her chest.

 

Steve knows that the Clint/Coulson/Natasha bonds run deep, and understands her desire to be the one to make contact, but as far as Steve is concerned, it’s his burden to carry.  “I appreciate that.  But this is my mess and it’s my responsibility,” he tells her.  “And I _think_ it’s still my call,” he adds, not sure if anyone will continue to defer to his leadership after what has happened; he has his own doubts as to whether they even should.

 

Natasha stares unblinking at him for a moment, her face unreadable as always.   Steve’s preparing to argue with her since he’s pretty sure she’s going to tell him it’s not his call any longer, but in the end, she gives a perfunctory nod and turns to sweep the others out of the hallway. 

 

After they all leave, Steve looks around, finds a chair in a quiet corner and pulls out his phone.  He’s pretty sure he’s never made a call quite as difficult as this is going to be, but he can’t put it off any longer; Coulson needs to know.  He opens his contacts and scrolls to Phil’s, hesitating with his thumb over the number for a few seconds, then he takes a deep breath and touches the screen. 

 

Phil picks up almost immediately.  “Captain?” 

 

“How fast can you get to Wakanda?” Steve asks him without preamble.

 

“Fourteen hours,” Coulson answers with no hesitation.  “What’s going on?”

 

“It’s Clint,” Steve answers reluctantly, closing his eyes as the guilt washes over him again.

 

There’s a brief pause.  “Is he dead?” Coulson asks, and Steve can just barely hear the strain in the question.

 

“No, but… it’s bad.”

 

“Is he _going_ to die?”  Coulson’s voice is unfathomably calm, and damn, Steve knew the guy had nerves of steel but, _really_ _?_

 

“I… don’t think so.  But, I think it would be good if you were here when he wakes up.”

 

“Eleven hours,” Coulson amends with no further questions.  “Send coordinates.  I’m on my way.”

 

AAAAAAAA

 

A couple of days after Clint wakes up, Steve finds himself sitting in a chair, elbows on knees, in the hall outside Clint’s room; he’s still not been in to visit when Clint’s awake.  He is trying to garner enough courage to walk through the door, when said-door opens and Phil Coulson walks out.  Steve catches a glimpse of Sam in the room and hears his voice waft sharply out; it sounds like he’s harassing Clint about something.  It sounds… normal; like any after-action hospital visit (if those can be normal).  Steve steeples his hands in front of his mouth and his self-reproach reaches new heights at his inability to face his friend.  What kind of leader is he?

 

He sees Phil notice him and alter his course slightly to come sit next to him.  “Are you alright, Captain?” Coulson asks with such genuine concern that Steve realizes he must look as wrecked as he feels. 

 

Steve wants to laugh at the irony of that question since Clint’s the one in the hospital bed and Coulson is the one who looks like he hasn’t slept in days. 

 

Steve sits up straight, ignoring the question; how he feels is beyond irrelevant.  “How is he?” he asks instead.

 

There’s a beat before Coulson answers.  “A little more alert every time he wakes up.”

 

That’s a non-answer if Steve’s ever heard one, but he nods his head, staring at the closed hospital room door.  “I should go in and see him…” Steve’s voice trails off and he hates himself for the reluctance he can hear in his own voice.  He’s a coward.

 

“Why not wait,” Phil suggests gently.  “He’ll probably be asleep again soon, especially the way Sam’s winding him up.”

 

Steve nods again, feeling relieved, and then feeling that much guiltier for it.

 

“And… you can’t go in and talk to him looking like that,” Phil adds, sliding his eyes sideways to glance at Steve.

 

Steve looks sharply at Phil.  “Like what?”

 

Phil gives him a knowing, sympathetic look before he says, “More or less like you just kicked his puppy.”

 

Steve huffs humorlessly.  “I wish that’s all I’d done,” he murmurs, turning his face toward Clint’s room again.  There are a few moments of silence before he continues.  “You know, when Buck and I were flying away from the airport, he asked me what was going to happen to my friends.  I told him I didn’t know, but that I’d deal with it.”  He turns an anguished expression toward Phil.  “ _How do I deal with this?_ ”  His question comes out a strangled whisper.

 

Phil eyes him critically for a moment and the silence seems to reverberate down the hall.  As he watches the man next to him, Steve gets the feeling that he’s choosing his words very carefully. 

 

“How much do you know about Clint’s childhood?” Phil ultimately asks.

 

Steve’s face shifts and he raises an eyebrow in surprise; it’s not a question he would have expected.  “Not much,” he admits.  “Clint doesn’t really talk about his past.  Raised in a circus family, right?” he asks with a faint smile.

 

When Phil doesn’t answer right away, Steve turns and squares himself more fully to Phil.  “What?”

 

Phil seems to make up his mind about something and sits up, turning to Steve as well.  “You’re half right.”

 

Steve cocks his head. “Which half?”

 

Coulson hesitates again and then forges on.  “Clint’s father was an abusive alcoholic.  He and his brother Barney were orphaned when Clint was 6 and Barney was 9, after their father got himself and their mother killed in a drunk-driving accident.  They bounced from an orphanage to a bunch of different foster homes for a couple of years, until Barney had enough and they ran.  They hooked up with a circus whose owner was unscrupulous enough to take in two young boys with no questions asked.  Clint spent the rest of adolescence there.”

 

Steve stares at him, dumbfounded.  “That… that doesn’t seem possible,” he sputters, feeling pure disbelief at something so ludicrous.  “How could… Why wouldn’t anyone try to find out where they belonged?”

 

“You see my point,” Phil sighs wearily, running a hand down his face before looking back at Steve.  “Clint grew up in a _circus_ – a place that was short on morals and long on looking the other way - without a family; without any parents or adult to look out for him and keep him safe.”  Phil pauses and then gives him a significant look.  “He wasn’t always safe,” he says pointedly after a few seconds.

 

Steve feels his face flush in outrage.  “Are you saying,” he grits out between clenched teeth, “that because this happened before, it somehow makes it _okay?_ ”  Steve feels sick at the idea and can’t believe Coulson would suggest something so contemptible.

 

“Not even in the slightest,” Phil replies calmly, and Steve relaxes fractionally.  “I’m saying Clint’s a _survivor_.  He lived through what was possibly the worst childhood ever and came out the other side stronger for it; I’ve never seen him indulge in a minute of self-pity.”  Phil pauses and looks back at Clint’s room for a few seconds.  “People think Hawkeye has no regard for his own life, but that’s not true at all.  It’s just that the circumstances of his past drive him to make sure others have what he didn’t – someone to protect them - no matter what the cost to himself.” 

 

Steve listens, eyes wide, taking that in.  He finds himself re-cataloging every seemingly crazy thing he’d ever seen Clint do; and suddenly, all of his apparently reckless behavior re-slots in Steve's mind into something different, altogether.  Steve has fought and worked with Clint for four years – even _lived_ with him for part of that time - but he’s starting to realize that he never _really_ knew the man.  That thought leaves a hollow feeling in his gut.

 

“Look,” Coulson stirs him out of his thoughts.  “I know you feel responsible for what happened...” Coulson says, without judgement in his voice.

 

“Because I _am_ responsible,” Steve interjects adamantly.  “It’s my fault they were there in the first place.”

 

“You know better than that, Captain.  You all know the potential consequences every time you assemble, but you accept those risks.  And wars have a million variables that you can't foresee or control.  As a leader, you know you can’t take personal responsibility for everything that happens.”

 

“This wasn’t a war – it was a pissing match between me and Tony,” he spits, disgusted with himself.  "And somehow I don’t think Hawkeye would have come when I called if he knew what would happen,” Steve says bitterly, staring down at the floor.

 

Phil shakes his head.  “You’re wrong.  Clint and I talked before he left and he made it clear that his decision had very little to do with you, and almost everything to do with Wanda.”

 

Steve jerks his head up in surprise. 

 

“He knew Wanda wasn’t going to sign the Accords and knew it was only a matter of time before she found her way to you.  While Clint supported your position, he wasn’t in Berlin for you as much as he was there to try to protect _her_.  Wanda’s… special to him,” Coulson says.

 

Steve can’t help feeling somehow even worse at that.  Clint’s attachment to the young orphan has been clear to everyone since Sokovia, and if Steve hadn't asked for her help, Hawkeye wouldn't be where he is now. 

 

“When they ended up on the Raft,” Coulson continues, “he knew exactly what he was doing when he made the choice to steer the course of events to try to make sure she’d be okay.  It’s not in his DNA to sit back and hope for the best.  It’s who he is; it’s where he sees his value.  So he doesn’t want your pity for a choice he willingly made, nor your own self-pity for thinking that what happened to him had anything to do with you.  All that serves to do is diminish the sacrifice he made, and _no one_ should do that,” Phil concludes fiercely.

 

Steve stares at him, incredulous.  “You sound like you support what he did.”

 

Phil makes a small, pained noise and blinks slowly, then opens his eyes and looks back at Steve.  “Clint’s tendency toward self-sacrifice is the thing I hate about him most,” Phil admits. 

 

“Then I don’t understand…” Steve responds, shaking his head.

 

“It’s also one of the things I love about him most,” Phil completes the thought, a rueful smile on his face.  “I’ve worked with super heroes and gods, Captain, but Clint’s the most heroic person I’ve ever known.”

 

Steve’s starting to think that maybe he feels the same way.

 

“You asked how you deal with this?  My suggestion is that you try dealing with it the way Clint is… with courage and determination, and without flinching.”  And with that, Coulson stands, places his hand briefly on Steve’s shoulder, and then leaves, making his way with an exhausted shuffle down the hall without looking back.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

“So, what’s the plan, Cap?”  The Dodgers are pummeling the Cubs, so Clint’s losing interest in the game pretty fast; Steve’s not, of course.

 

“What?” Steve asks, clearly reluctant to drag his eyes away from the action they’ve both been watching on the tablet.

 

“When I get outta here.  When we _all_ get outta here… What are we gonna do to make sure Barnes is safe so you can get him outta that fucking cryo-thing?” Clint says, and when Steve starts to interject, he lifts his eyebrows.  “Don’t even try to convince me that you’ve just been sitting around Wakanda taking a vacation.  I know you’ve been meeting with T’Challa and making plans.  So what is it, and how can I help?” 

 

The last of it comes out as a rough whisper – he’s been overdoing his voice today and actually had to hit his morphine pump earlier after he’d yelled in frustration when the Cubs gave up back-to-back homeruns.  Steve practically turned green at that, and it was actually fucking hilarious watching him contort his face in an effort not to react to Clint’s pain. 

 

Cap’s got a similar look on his face right now, and Clint just smiles.  Steve’s trying _so hard_ to act normal around him that it’s almost comical.  He appreciates the hell out of the fact that Steve hasn’t come in apologizing and filled with pity, but the man still pretty much wears his guilt on his sleeve.  It’s stupid though, because Clint doesn’t blame Steve for any of this.  He doesn’t blame Tony either.  Shit happens, and this time, the shit happened to him. 

 

“What?” Steve asks, obviously feeling defensive.

 

“Your face, man!” Clint can’t hold back his laugh, but then he swallows with a grimace.  “Hey, look.  I’m not gonna be in this bed forever,” he’s whispering now.  “And last time I checked, I didn’t really have anything better to do.”

 

“I would never ask you to…” Steve starts but then stops abruptly because Clint has tried to shift himself on the bed and that was maybe not such a good idea.  It doesn’t go well, and he’s gasping at the sharp pain that shoots through his rectum.   He squeezes his eyes shut against a sudden memory of the first breach by Asshole Guard #6 on the Raft.  Without even thinking, he hits the button on the morphine pump; the pain’s not that bad, but he’s hoping the drugs will smooth away some of the sharpness of the sense-memory.  They do.  

 

When he opens his eyes again after a few moments, Steve is hovering over him, his face a complex mix of emotions.  Clint glares and shakes his head jerkily, and Steve, thankfully, sits back down.  Once his heart has stopped pounding so hard and he’s got his breath back a little, Clint turns toward Steve to resume their conversation, hoping Rogers will let it go. 

 

“I know you wouldn’t ask, Cap,” he rasps, his voice still hitching unevenly from the images that’re stuck in his head.  “But this isn’t just your war.  Whatever those Hydra bastards did to him… we need to figure it out.  Make sure it doesn’t happen again so we can get Barnes out of deep freeze…”

 

Steve searches his face for a moment; he looks conflicted.

 

Clint sighs.  “Look, I know what it’s like to have someone else calling the shots in your head and there not being a damn thing you can do about it.”

 

The look of sympathy Steve gives him is irritating enough to make Clint close his eyes against it, but only for a couple of seconds.  He’s feeling floaty and a little disoriented from the drugs; it’s fucking annoying.  He blinks a few times to try to clear his head.

 

“I know what it’s like,” he says again, “and if there’s anything I can do to help him – to help you get your friend back – then there’s no way I’m sitting on the sidelines.”

 

Something seems to click in Steve’s head and Clint can see him make a concerted effort to change his expression.  “I appreciate that, Clint,” he says softly then cocks his head and gives Clint a warm smile.  “You know, I think you two would like each other – you’re a lot alike.”

 

“Right, brainwashed snipers…” Clint mumbles with his eyes closed.

 

“That’s not at all what I meant, actually.”

 

Clint knows what he meant – had heard enough stories about Barnes to get how people might think they see similarities, even if the Barnes he met a couple weeks ago is a far cry from the character people talk about.  But he hears the warmth and wistful nostalgia in Steve’s voice and he knows it’s not for him.  He’d rather not start making comparisons that would point out to Steve just exactly how much they _aren’t_ alike, so he just hums out a small acknowledgement, eyes going back to the action on the tablet; it looks like the Cubs might be coming back.

 

“Okay, yes, I’ve been doing some planning,” Steve tells him after a moment of consideration, and Clint turns his head quickly.  “And when the time comes I would appreciate your help, actually…”

 

Clint looks at him with interest and opens his mouth to ask what Steve's got going, but Steve holds up a hand in a ‘wait’ gesture. 

 

“I’ll take you through everything I have when you’re out of this hospital, _which_ I understand is not going to be until you start eating… so how ‘bout I go get you something from the cafeteria?”

 

 _Fuck!_   Clint snaps his mouth shut.  Goddamn Phil and his crusade to get him to fucking eat!  He glowers at Steve and is glad to see that at least he has the decency to look remorseful for blindsiding him like that.  With no intention of discussing his ongoing lack of appetite with Steve, Clint does the easy thing; he ignores Steve’s question and goes back to watching the game.

 

Cap shifts uncertainly in his seat and after a couple of minutes, Clint can see that he’s gearing up to say something more, so before he can, Clint diverts him.    

 

“Hey, so, have you seen Wanda lately?” he asks.

 

Steve hesitates before answering and Clint’s pretty sure he’s trying to decide whether or not to challenge Clint, but eventually, he sort of sags in his chair and sighs.  “Yeah, I talked to her,” Steve nods.  “I don’t think it went very well,” he scowls.

 

Clint huffs.  He has a pretty good idea of what it’s like trying to talk to Wanda when she’s pissed.

 

“She still hasn’t been by to see you?” Steve asks, and Clint can hear the troubled concern in his voice.

 

Clint shakes his head.  “No, but it’s okay,” he reassures.  “I’ve seen her skulking around in the hall, peeking in the window.  She’s a shit spy.  Nat needs to work with her on that,” Clint yawns.  “She’ll come when she figures things out.”

 

“What things?”

 

Clint shrugs and is momentarily happy that it doesn’t hurt so badly; then he remembers it’s only because of the drugs.  Damn.  “Whatever it is she’s stewing about.”

 

“I think you need to rest your voice, Clint,” Steve remarks when the last of those words are barely audible.

 

Clint nods and tries to clear his throat.  The morphine hits he took are pulling him down.  He hates it.  “Do me a favor, Cap, and stay on top of it?” Clint asks, sucking in a huge yawn.  “She puts up a good front, but she needs all of you.  She needs to know that she’s not alone…” the last words are just a whispered mumble.

 

“We’ll make sure she knows,” Cap reassues him, and Clint nods, his eyes too heavy to keep open any longer.  “Sleep tight, Clint,” is the last thing he hears before he’s sinking further down into the morphine haze.  He’s pretty sure he feels Steve pull his blanket up higher on his chest and tuck it gently around him.  Clint would kick his ass for treating him like a 4-year-old, but it feels kinda good, and well, he’s Captain America, so that probably wouldn’t turn out so well for Clint.  He decides to let it slide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! : )
> 
> Next up: Sam. Or maybe Scott... can't decide. lol!


	4. Scott

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Singing Wolf and Lexx_Ishi, both, for their very helpful feedback on this chapter. And once again to dentalfloss for her early read-through. You all made this better. : D
> 
> And thanks as always, to my beta, KippyVee. You rock!

** Scott **

 

Scott looks up when he hears the outer door grind open.  He’s surprised to see five guards walk in and he tracks them with wary interest.  When they march past his cell without a glance, relief washes over him.  But when they go to Barton’s cell and open it without comment, he stands up quickly and moves to the front of his cell to watch what’s happening.

 

This doesn’t feel normal.  And Clint hasn’t uttered a single insult, which tells him that something is _definitely_ off.  “Hey, what’s going on?” he asks loudly, craning his neck to try to see around the corner of his cell.

 

The five guards and Clint all ignore him but Scott continues to ask questions because nothing about this feels right.  In the eight days they’ve been in this damn place, _two_ guards have come routinely every day, to take each of them, one at a time, out of their cells for an hour alone in a gym and then a shower.  And every time, they pass the restraints through the opening in the cell door first, and make sure the Avengers shackle their own arms and legs before the door is opened.  This time, they simply open the door and pull Clint from his cell, and the fact that there are five of them is particularly disturbing. 

 

 _“Hey!  Clint!_   _HEY!  Where are you taking him?”_ Scott yells and keeps yelling, even after he knows they must be well out of earshot. 

 

“Sam!  Where the hell did they just take him?” Scott calls over to Wilson.

 

Sam had been yelling as well, but he answers quietly, sounding distracted, tense.  “I don't know.  But I don’t like it.” 

 

Scott spends the next hour or so pacing in his cell.  This can’t be good.  In fact, he’s pretty sure it’s very bad.  Barton has been winding the guards up for days now – the idiot.  Doesn’t he get that they are at the mercy of these assholes?  Scott thinks about his little girl and worries that they’ll come for him next.  He’s wracked with guilt at the relief he feels when he realizes he doesn’t think that they will because it’s really only Barton they’ve been glaring at.  Oh, fuck, Barton… what the hell are they doing to him?

 

AAAAAAAA

 

“ _Jesus…_ ” Scott chokes out in shock when he sees Clint’s condition as they walk him back to his cell, the guards in a loose semi-circle around him, but keeping arms-length distance.  Barton has clearly been beaten to a pulp; there’s a copious amount of blood running down his cheek, and from his nose, his split lip and his left ear, and the left side of his face is badly swollen and turning black and blue.  His arms are covered in bruises and Scott’s pretty sure he can see the impression of handprints in the marks.  There are bruises around his neck.  He’s pale and looks shaky and he walks with one arm lightly cradling his torso.  Scott can tell that he’s making a Herculean effort to stand tall and walk straight.  But it’s not until Clint hobbles gingerly past Scott's cell that he understands just how bad this really is; there is a wide streak of dark blood soaking the back of his pants.

 

“ _Fuck…_ ” Scott murmurs, horrified, as he watches the guards open Barton’s cell and shove him in; he can’t see Clint in his cell, but he hears him fall hard to the floor.  “ _Barton!_   Hey, Barton, talk to me!” he yells and he can hear Sam hollering as well.  It’s pointless though because Clint never responds.  One of the guards stops on his way out and glares at Scott, then looks pointedly over at Clint’s cell and back at him; Scott shuts his mouth immediately.  The last thing he wants to do is to draw their attention onto himself, or for them to rain down any more punishment onto Barton, because the way the man looked, he might not survive another beating – if he even survives this. 

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Scott wanders aimlessly.  He has nowhere to go – they’ve been instructed not to venture outside the walls of the Palace compound - but inside the walls looks like its own city, at least a mile square, so he wanders and gets to know it.  He walks every day, from the time he gets up until he goes to bed, only taking breaks to eat or drink something.  It’s hot.  Like, really fucking hot.  And humid.  Holy shit is it humid.  How can people stand this?  _He_ can't stand this.  But he stays outside and walks, because, hell, if Barton can walk into a beating like the one he did, then Scott can walk around outside a little and suffer the discomfort of the Wakandan summer.  He feels like it’s the least he can do – like penance, or something.  Yeah, it’s penance, even though he’d like to tell himself that he didn’t really do anything to deserve this particular self-imposed purgatory. 

 

Except that he did. 

 

He’d felt _relief_.  Relief that it was Clint that the guards came and took away and not him; and complete and utter relief when they’d brought Barton back and Scott understood just what the guards had done.  Barton is lying in a hospital bed, broken bones and bruises and insides torn to hell, and Scott doesn’t have a scratch on him and he’s _relieved_.  His guilt eats at him, so he walks, and if he suffers just a tiny fraction of what Clint’s suffered, then at the end of the day, maybe it will let him sleep a little easier.  So, yeah, he can stand a little heat and humidity. 

 

He walks and thinks, his mind on a seemingly endless loop.  He doesn’t think about if they’ll ever be able to leave Wakanda, or if he’ll ever see Cassie again, because that way lies madness.  Instead he thinks about Hawkeye and the puzzle he can’t quite piece together.  He gets the feeling there’s a whole backstory there that he feels a desperate need to know, because then maybe all this can somehow make sense. 

 

He figures Black Widow would probably be the best person to ask – they've been partners, after all, and there seems to be something between them.  On the quinjet, she knew that Hawkeye had ulterior motives to what he was doing on the Raft.  And she wears a necklace with an arrow on it – that can’t be a coincidence.  But she’s frankly terrifying and doesn’t really seem the type to share, so he doesn’t think he’ll ask her.  Wanda also seems connected to Clint, and he knows Hawkeye spent a lot of time talking to her while they were imprisoned; he could hear Barton murmuring softly to her for hours on end.  But Wanda is brooding and scary in a whole different way.  Plus, she seemed pretty traumatized on the quinjet, and he hasn’t seen any sign of her since they arrived in Wakanda.  It finally occurs to him to wonder if she’s okay.  And then he feels bad for not thinking it sooner. 

 

Captain America seems to know Hawkeye pretty well – Scott knows they were Avengers together - but the guy has his hands full with his brainwashed buddy.  Scott knows that he's also working hard to figure out a way out of this mess for all of them, and on the couple of occasions that Scott’s seen him, he seems preoccupied and distracted, so he doesn’t really want to bug Captain America. 

 

Scott sighs at the realization that that only leaves Sam, because he didn't get the sense that Sam knew Barton all that well before all of this.  But since the man is really Scott’s only remaining option, he goes in search of him.   He knows Sam goes to the hospital and sits with Clint for a short time, two or three times a day, so he walks back and forth in front of the building until he sees Sam emerge and head to a coffee cart about a block away.  When Sam gets his coffee and sits on a bench, Scott gets some water and joins him.

 

Sam squints at him – maybe scrutinizes him.  “Hey, Tic Tac.  How you doin’?”

 

“I’m good.  Well, no, that’s not exactly true.  I mean, I’m stuck in a foreign country and can’t go home and I haven’t been able to talk to my kid and I don’t really want to think about that, and god knows, my ex is probably piiiisssssed off that I just disappeared off the face of the earth and if I ever get back she’s going to make my life miserable.  But, ya know, I guess in the big scheme of things, I’m good compared to Clint, so uh, there’s that…” Scott clamps his mouth shut to stop himself from talking.

 

“Okaaaaay…” Sam answers, looking like he’s still trying to sift through that.

 

“So, look, I was wondering, what’s the story with him?  Barton?  Do you know?”

 

Sam gazes at him for a moment before answering, as though considering what to say.  “Well, he’s healing up okay.  The doctors think-”

 

“Nonono,” Scott stops him, shaking his head vigorously.  “I mean, what’s the story with _him?_   Why do you think he did that?”

 

Sam blinks.  “He was protecting Wanda,” he answers. 

 

Scott lets out an impatient breath.  “Right.  I _know_.  But, I mean, what _drives a guy_ to go asking for a beating like that?  And… what’s with the bow and arrow?  The rest of us, we go out there and we’ve got _something_ to… to give us an edge.  I can shrink, you can fly, Wanda… does weird shit.  This guy, I mean, all he has is a freaking _bow and arrow_.  That’s all!  How… how does someone go out there and, and, and _fight_ with just a freaking bow and arrow?  _Right?”_   Scott’s talking really fast and feels on the edge of losing his shit so he stops and takes a drink of water to try to stem the tide of words flowing from his mouth.  “I just… I just don’t understand, but I… I really _need_ to…” he says, hearing the desperation in his voice.

 

“Look, Lang,” Sam starts gently.  “I… I don’t think I have an answer for you.  But… maybe you should just go talk to him.  You can _ask_ him.  It’s okay to do that.”   

 

Scott chews the inside of his cheek and picks at the label on his bottle of water, thinking about that.  He _could_ go talk to Barton, but then he’d have to _go_ talk to Barton, and he’s not sure he’s ready to do that quite yet – thinks maybe he has some more penance to do first.  He turns and squints up at the bright mid-day sun.  It’s really fucking bright and his eyes start to water immediately.  Is the sun this bright back home?  Doesn’t seem like it.  He stares up at the big ball of intensity, settling into the discomfort of it, and considers what Sam said.

 

Eventually he turns back to Sam again, but he just looks like a big blobby sunspot now, so he closes his eyes instead (he still sees the big blob behind his eyelids).  “When they brought him back to his cell…” Scott starts, but his throat seems to constrict and he can’t get the rest of his words out.  He’s not even sure what words he might be trying to say.

 

When he opens his eyes again, he can see Sam’s profile nodding slightly, but he still can’t make out his features.  “I know, man…” Sam says softly.  “Me, too,” he adds a moment later.

 

“Okay,” Scott blows out a relieved breath, not entirely clear on what he’s relieved about.  Maybe it’s just knowing that someone else is dealing with the same tangle of emotions he’s been trying to sort through. 

 

He’s starting to get jittery, though, and he knows he needs to walk some more, so he stands abruptly.  He’s finally able to distinguish things a little and can see that Sam looks startled, then concerned.  “Where you goin’, Tic Tac?”

 

“Uh, nowhere… you know… I just gotta…” he gestures with a thumb over his shoulder.  “I’ll, uh… see you later,” he tells Sam, and then starts walking again.

 

“Hey, Scott,” he hears Sam call after him and he turns around.  “You ever want to talk some more, I’m here, man.”

 

Scott nods and goes back to walking.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Scott is sitting al fresco in a cafe of sorts in the Palace compound eating something he can’t identify but likes quite a bit, when an exhausted-looking man in a slightly creased suit sits down in the chair across from him.  He stops chewing and looks over at the other man questioningly.

 

“Hello, Mr. Lang.  My name is Phil Coulson.  I’m with SHIELD,” he says casually.

 

Scott chews frantically and swallows hard around the food in his mouth and then quickly wipes his face with a napkin.  “You’re, uh, the _director_ of SHIELD,” he answers nervously, because everyone knows who Phil Coulson is. 

 

“Yes,” Phil acknowledges mildly.  “I’ve been looking for you, Mr. Lang.”

 

Scott’s stomach drops and dread washes over him.  He looks around to see if he can spot the other armed agents that he’s sure must be surrounding him by now, but none are readily apparent; of course, they’re _SHIELD_ agents, so they probably wouldn’t be obvious.  Scott swallows thickly again.  “Are you, uh… are you here to take us back?”

 

“Back?”

 

“To the Raft?” he asks, fear rising up like bile inside him.  He does not want to go back to that place. 

 

Director Coulson blinks and Scott gets the impression that he’s somehow surprised the man with the question.

 

“No, Mr. Lang, I’m not here to return you to the prison in which you were illegally confined without a trial,” he says tersely and pulls out a tablet, placing it in front of Scott.  “I’m here to ask you if you could please look at these photographs and tell me if you can identify the guards who attacked Hawkeye.”

 

It takes a few seconds for Scott to processes what Coulson has said.  “Oh… _oh!_ ” he finally responds, his shoulders slumping in relief as Coulson stares back at him, his expression blank.  It’s a little creepy, actually.

 

“The photos, Mr. Lang,” Phil prompts him, nodding down at the tablet. 

 

Scott visibly shakes himself out of his thoughts.  “Right, sorry,” he says, looking down at the employee photos staring back at him.  There are four photos on each page and he swipes through all six pages quickly first and then goes back to the beginning to look closely.  He recognizes almost all of the faces, having had eight days with little else to do but watch the guards as they came and went.  But a few faces stand out.  “This one,” he says, his heartrate picking up when he sees one of the guards that calmly led Clint away from them a few days ago.  “This one,” he points when he recognizes the second.  “These two,” he says, glaring at a couple of faces on the third page he swipes to.  “And this one,” he finds the last one on the fifth page. 

 

When he looks up at Coulson, he is staring at the tablet with a thunderous expression.  A split second later, though, he seems to catch himself and when he looks back up at Scott, his face reveals nothing.  “Those are the same men that Mr. Wilson identified as well,” he says as he reaches for the tablet.  “Thank you, Mr. Lang.”

 

“What are you going to do to them?” Scott asks, for the first time hearing in his own voice some of the rage that he’s been working hard to contain.  “I’m just wondering, ya know?  Cuz you look like maybe you’re going to kill them.  And while I’m not really one to go in for murder, _generally_ , these guys I might not mind so much.  You know.  If you wanted to.” 

 

Coulson stares at Scott, and then seems to deflate a little right before his eyes, losing the stoic, professional demeanor he has had heretofore.  He takes a deep breath and sighs.  “As much as I might like that, Mr. Lang…” he wearily rubs his eyes with the fingers and thumb of his right hand for a second before looking back at Scott, “…and I truly would, SHIELD is not a vigilante organization.  These men will be prosecuted and tried for their crimes, and if there’s any justice in this world, they will soon be occupying the cells that you and the others vacated.  And I hope for their sake that the facility does a better job of screening their personnel in the future.”  Coulson runs a hand down his face, and Scott thinks the Director looks like he could plunk his head down right here at the table and be out cold in two seconds. 

 

A moment of silence hangs between them as Coulson just sort of stares into space looking weary and sad, and Scott tries to puzzle out the man in front of him.  After a moment, Scott leans forward in his seat. “So, uh, can I ask you something?”

 

Coulson blinks and it seems to take effort for him to focus, but he eventually gestures for Scott to continue.

 

“Why are you here, exactly?” he asks, and Coulson raises an eyebrow at him.  “I mean, since you’re not here to arrest us.  No offence, but ID-ing suspects seems like an errand you could have sent anyone on.”

 

Coulson pauses for a second and then clears his throat.  “These aren’t just any suspects, Mr. Lang.  They are men who viciously attacked and caused grievous bodily harm to an _Avenger._   We don’t take that lightly at SHIELD,” his voice has taken on an edge.

 

“Right, of course not,” Scott quickly agrees.  “But you could’ve emailed these photos… I mean, it woulda been faster…”

 

Coulson studies him for a second and then seems to make a decision; he clears his throat again and sits up straighter in the chair.  “Also, Hawkeye…” he starts, then cuts himself off, as though he’s rethinking whatever he was going to say.  But then he looks at Scott discerningly and a few seconds later he seems to change his mind again.  “Hawkeye – _Clint_ – and I are partners,” Coulson finally says.

 

Scott looks back at him, confused.  “I thought Black Widow…”

 

“Is Hawkeye’s work partner,” Coulson clarifies.

 

“Right…” Scott says, not getting Coulson’s point, because - isn’t that what he just said?

 

Coulson rolls his eyes, which is sort of startling in how unlike his previous demeanor the gesture is.  “I am his _partner,”_ he emphasizes _.  “Outside_ of work.”

 

After a moment, that bit of information sinks in, and when it finally does, Scott’s eyes go wide in surprise.  “ _OH!_ ” he blurts.  “Oh, Jesus.  _Right!_   Sorry.  I get it now.  So… _wow!_   That’s… that’s really kind of unexpected, actually…” Scott stammers with a furrowed brow.  “I mean, you and _Hawkeye_?  Not… not that there’s anything wrong with that.”  Scott winces and mentally kicks himself.

 

“Try not to hurt yourself, Mr. Lang,” Coulson says and Scott is relieved that he thinks he detects the tiniest bit of humor there.  Maybe he liked the Seinfeld reference.

 

“Right, I mean there’s nothing wrong with it, it’s just that you’re so…” Scott waves his hand vaguely in the direction of Coulson’s suit, “…and he’s so…”

 

“He’s so, _what_ , Mr. Lang?” Coulson asks, raising an eyebrow threateningly.

 

Scott swallows nervously.  “… _Awesome!_   Amazing even!  I mean, the guy fights with… with a bow and arrow!  How freakishly cool is that?  Yeah, I… I totally get it now…” he adds, nodding vigorously, and then shuts his mouths so he doesn’t embarrass himself any further.  Or so the man across from him doesn’t reach over and snap his neck.

 

Coulson does reach over and Scott jerks backward in terror, but the other man just grabs a piece of meat off of Scott’s plate, dragging it through the sauce there and then popping it into his mouth.  Scott just stares at him, because, _seriously?_ Did the man just eat off his plate?  “So, Mr. Lang,” he says after licking his thumb, and with the tiniest hint of laughter in his eyes.  Scott lets himself relax a little (probably not going to snap his neck...)  “I’ve spoken with Secretary Ross, and given the fact that Sergeant Barnes has been exonerated of the bombing in Vienna, and since you were not one of the original Avengers who was requested to sign the Accords, he has agreed that you can return home to your daughter – _under the radar_ – provided you _stay_ under the radar, at least until this… situation is resolved.”

 

Scott gapes at him.  “Are you saying I won’t be arrested if I go back?”

 

“The Secretary and I have had a conversation and I believe he recognizes that despite recent events, the Avengers are still quite highly regarded by the public.  If word got out that they were wrongly accused, illegally imprisoned on his order and,” Coulson pauses for a beat, “…assaulted… I don’t think things would look too good for him.”

 

“You blackmailed the _Secretary of State_ into letting me go back to my kid?” Scott asks him, stunned.

 

Coulson hesitates.  “Blackmail is a strong word, Mr. Lang,” he answers mildly.  “Let’s just say the Secretary and I had a conversation and he’s appropriately contrite.”  Scott could swear he sees the corners of Coulson’s mouth turn up in the ghost of a smile, but if he did let that slip, he regains control quickly, then reaches over to pick up the tablet.

 

"What about the others?" Scott asks, hopeful that they're all going home.

 

Coulson's features seems to still on his face.  "We're... still in negotiations."

 

Scott looks away and takes a moment to absorb that.  He gets to go home to his daughter, but his friends are still stuck here in limbo.  It doesn't seem fair, but he can't really look this gift-horse in the mouth, either.  But there's something else he needs to know...

 

He turns back to Coulson.  "And my suit?" Scott asks carefully, squinting over at him.

 

"What about it?" Coulson answers smoothly.  "As I understand, it went missing from the Raft.  Along with Hawkeye's quiver.  It's a shame, don't you agree?"

 

Scott casts a speculative eye on Coulson. "Yeah, a real shame," he says slowly, nodding in agreement.

 

"Well, lets hope it doesn't fall into the wrong hands.  You might check with the Black Widow and see if she has any ideas.  She's very resourceful."  Phil flicks him a practiced smile and stands. 

 

Scott stands up as well.  “I don’t know what to say.  Wait… yes I do.  Thank you, Sir,” he says, reaching across and grabbing Phil’s hand.  “Really, thank you so much!” he adds as he smiles like a fool and vigorously pumps Coulson’s hand up and down. 

 

“You’re welcome, Mr. Lang,” Coulson says, looking down at their hands; Scott quickly releases him and Coulson turns to walk away. 

 

“Hey…” Scott says, stopping Coulson, who turns slightly and cocks his head to indicate he’s listening.  Scott looks down at the floor for a second and furrows his brow, because he’s not exactly sure what he means to say.  “I’m, uh, I’m sorta new to this superhero stuff, and I… I gotta tell you, it’s kinda… kinda crazy sometimes,” Scott stammers, trying to get his thoughts in order.

 

This time Coulson really does smile a little.  “I’ve heard that once or twice.”

 

“And Hawkeye, he’s… well, I’m still trying to figure him out, cuz, you know, he was on them - the guards – all the time - and I’m pretty sure he knew what they would probably do to him.  I mean, not that they would… but...” Scott struggles, really not wanting to verbalize what the guards had actually done to Barton.

 

Scott can see Coulson’s expression shift and the man closes his eyes as though in pain.  “I am aware of everything that transpired,” Coulson says quietly, but with steel in his voice.  And when he opens his eyes, Scott can see there is steel there, as well.

 

“Yeah… but, you know, I have this idea that the rest of us owe him a hell of a lot...” Scott sees Coulson’s expression shift to surprised interest, “…and I’m not gonna forget that,” he pins Coulson with a fierce gaze so man will understand the sincerity of his words.

 

The hard look in Coulson’s eyes softens considerably and after a moment, he swallows and he gives Scott the slightest nod, before he turns back and leaves without another word. 

 

When Coulson turns the corner out of sight, Scott drops back into his chair, letting out a shaky breath.  Jesus… he gets to go home to Cassie.  The relief and gratitude he feels is all-encompassing and he drops his face into his hands and tries to get his breathing under control.  After a few minutes, he sits back up, ignoring the stares he’s getting from the other patrons.  He looks at his plate of half-finished food and pushes it away, his emotions far too knotted up to eat any more.  He smiles, though, thinking of Cassie and how he’ll see her soon.  And how he'll have to go talk to Black Widow after all - if he wants to get his suit back.  His eyes follow the direction that Coulson went, turning over the encounter in his mind.  It was seriously weird.  And Hawkeye’s even more of a mystery now than he was before.  Because never in a million years would he have imagined that Barton – snarky, smartass, Clint ‘I’m-not-going-to-sign-the-accords-because-the-government-can-go-fuck-itself’ Barton - and the _Director_ of SHIELD would be… _together._

 

Jesus, this superhero shit just gets more fucking unbelievable every day.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Clint’s eyes snap open and he stares at the fourth ceiling tile from the left that he focusses on when he’s trying to calm his breathing.  He’s so fucking exhausted still, that he’s pretty sure he was barely asleep before he’d forced himself out of the nightmare he was having; hands had just started grabbing at him when he'd been able to stop it. 

 

Goddamn it, he’s sick of this fucking place, but he knows that until he manages to make himself eat (just the thought of it make his stomach roil), he’s probably not going anywhere.  Maybe he can convince Phil to help him to the shower again, because the one he’s gotten so far, and the perfunctory wipe downs before and since, have done fuck-all for how badly he still wants to scald the outer layers of skin off of his body. 

 

“Hey,” a soft voice startles him, and that’s bad.  He’s confused because he’s usually hyper-aware of his surroundings, so not remembering to check his environment when he woke is… troubling.  He won’t be much good to anyone if he can’t get his situational awareness kicked back into gear.

 

When he turns his head, he sees Scott Lang sitting next to him and lets himself relax.  He likes Lang.  He had gotten to know the man pretty well in their days of captivity, and when he’d talked about his daughter Cassie, Clint’s heart had ached for him.  But they’d shared some laughs too, and Clint appreciates that Scott can be irreverent when it doesn’t matter, but when push comes to shove, the guy has your back.

 

“Uh… hi,” Clint rasps, his throat still a little swollen and his voice still rough.  “How’re you doin’?”  Clint hasn’t seen the other man since he’d limped past Scott’s cell, how ever long ago that was.  Phil had assured him that no one else had been hurt, but he can’t stop himself from giving his friend an assessing once-over.

 

Scott ignores the question.  “I should have been by sooner, I know.  Sorry.  But, I’ve been walking around here a lot for the last few days – it’s really fucking hot out, by the way.  And humid.  You probably don’t know that 'cause it’s nice and cool in here, but lemme tell ya, it’s really fucking hot here.”

 

Right.  Lang’s a rambler.  Clint had let himself forget about that.  He just stares, waiting him out.

 

“Sorry… anyway… right… I’ve been walking and trying to get my head around this thing, and Sam said… Sam said I should just talk to you about it,” Scott tells him.  He is leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his neck craned up so he can look at Clint.

 

“What thing?” Clint croaks, confused.

 

“This… you… why you did that,” he answers.  “Why would you do that?” he asks as he sits fully upright.

 

Clint’s tired even though he just woke up, and he sorta wants to play dumb, but what’s the point?  They both know what Scott’s talking about and he doesn’t really have the energy for games.  Clint starts to shrug then winces – _fuck_ – when the hell is he going to remember that he tore the shit out of the muscles in his shoulders and arms when he was struggling to get away from the guards? 

 

He sighs deeply.  “Look, they were going to mess with one of us – they had that look.  It was just a matter of time,” Clint tells him, hoping Scott will be satisfied and leave it at that.

 

“Yeah,” Scott nods absently, staring at the floor.  A moment later he lifts his head back up and gives Clint a calculating look.  “So you thought, what?  ‘Hey, that sounds like fun, pick me’!”  He sounds annoyed and frustrated.

 

Clint sighs and closes his eyes.  “It wouldn’t have been my first choice…” he mumbles.

 

“No?  Who would you have picked?" Scott queries, his voice clipped.  "Wanda?”

 

Clint’s eyes snap open.  “She’s just a kid,” he replies automatically, even knowing how pissed she’d be if she heard him call her that.

 

“Me, then?” Scott probes, an eyebrow raised.

 

Clint shakes his head a little.  “You _have_ a kid.”

 

“So, Wilson…” Scott throws out there.

 

Clint closes his eyes again and gives a snort.  “Are you kidding?  Cap‘d kill me…”

 

When Clint opens his eyes again, it’s in time to see a knowing look flash across Lang’s face.  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he says, eyeing Clint critically.  

 

“What’s your point, Lang?” Clint asks, a bit more sharply than the situation deserves, but he’s feeling backed into a corner and he doesn’t like it.

 

Scott runs a hand down his face, pausing with his palm over his open mouth.   After a moment he drops his hand.  “I don’t know… I don’t…  Jesus.  I just… _fuck!_ ”  He drops his head into his hands.  When he looks up, his face is distraught and Clint hates it.  “What they did to you…”

 

“Look, Lang.  I’m fine, alright?” Clint bites out, frustrated with Lang and frustrated that the fact that he's still in this fucking bed belies his words.  “And everyone else is okay, so take the win.”

 

Scott stares at him for a moment, his eyes searching Clint’s.  Clint holds his gaze past the point of comfort, but it’s apparently enough because eventually Scott seems to let it go and stands up.

 

“Alright, look,” Scott says, taking a step up to the bed.  “I don’t know how he managed it, but your boyfriend,” Clint scrunches up his face at the word, “somehow fixed it for me to be able to go back home to my daughter, so it looks like I’m leaving in a few hours.”

 

Clint smiles; good job, Phil.  “That’s great.  I’m glad,” he says, because he _is_ glad for his friend, but he’s also glad that Lang has apparently decided to drop the other uncomfortable topic of conversation. 

 

“Yeah.  Me too,” Scott nods.  “He’s kinda terrifying, by the way… your boyfriend.”

 

Clint just huffs a small laugh; he knows what Lang is saying, but there’s no one that Clint finds _less_ terrifying, than Phil. 

 

He’s feeling oddly floaty, and he really just wants to close his eyes.  But he knows he’s probably not going to stay awake much longer, so he forces his eyes open wide and gives Lang a woozy grin.  “Hey, man.  Good to work with you.  Maybe we can do it again sometime.”

 

Lang snorts out a laugh, shaking his head.  “Jesus… you’re something else, Arrow Guy,” he reaches out and places his hand lightly on Clint’s shoulder, and Clint does _not_ let himself flinch.  “Listen, you ever need anything, and I mean, _ever_ , and _anything,_ you know where to find me, okay?”

 

“Ditto, Shrinking Guy _,_ ” Clint mumbles, sucking in a yawn, then giving in and closing his eyes.

 

“Yeah, I think we’ve all overdrawn on that account,” Scott answers, quiet and serious. 

 

Clint grunts and waves him off dismissively with the slightest flick of his unbandaged fingers; he’s back asleep within seconds.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! : )
> 
> Next up: Sam


	5. Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to dentalfloss and Lexx_Ishi for the feedback on this chapter.
> 
> And thanks to KippyVee for her beta of this chapter. But I did, of course, pick and pick and pick at this forever after she sent it back, so any mistakes are most certainly mine.

 

**Sam: **

 

“Barton! _Barton!  Knock it the fuck off!_   What the hell are you trying to do?” Sam hisses at the other man, trying not to raise his voice too much so that the guards won’t come back in.  For the fourth day in a row, the stupid, motherfucking _idiot_ just spent the ten minutes it took for two guards to come and get Lang for his hour out, cursing at the guards and insulting them - and their mothers - in very creative ways.  He’s been doing it every time the guards have shown up for any reason.  Sam can tell the guards are getting pissed – they’re shooting Barton some pretty fucking serious looks lately.  Some bad shit is going to happen if Barton doesn’t shut his fucking mouth.

 

Sam hadn’t known Barton too well before they’d landed here at the Raft – the archer having ‘retired’ from the Avengers before Sam really got involved.  But they’d crossed paths now and then, since Barton’s retirement had mostly consisted of returning to work for Phil Coulson at SHIELD, and their missions had intersected a few times.  And once, they’d kept each other company when their cohorts had been out without them; Sam had been laid up after a minor malfunction in his wings had landed him with a fractured tibia, and Clint had scratched his cornea in some kind of desert-sand mishap.  Once they’d confirmed that everyone was safe and en route back to their respective bases, the two of them had raided Tony Stark’s bar and gotten stupidly drunk on his ridiculously expensive Scotch, commiserating about being the ‘normal’ ones, susceptible to all manner of damage. 

 

It was an evening of good-natured bitching and comparing scars, but now and then, their conversation moved away from their game of war-wound one-upmanship (Barton was the clear and decisive winner) and danced around the edges of something more serious.  Sam probed a little bit; he’d heard some talk about how Barton had a death wish and he was curious what made the guy tick.  But any time Sam thought maybe he was starting to get a glimpse of the real Clint Barton, Hawkeye would seem to catch himself and slide an impenetrable mask back into place.   Sam remembered thinking, at the time, that he was pretty sure that it was just a cocky façade, and there was probably some pretty serious shit buried deep inside.  He came away from that evening knowing a little bit more about Hawkeye, but he couldn’t say he knew _Clint Barton_ any better.  

 

But spending the last six days locked in a prison with the man had convinced Sam that he knew Barton pretty goddamned well, and he was beginning to wish he didn’t.  He’d heard crazy shit about the guy’s recklessness – stuff that sounded too farfetched to believe - but watching Barton taunt the guards to no end had changed Sam’s mind.  The guy was definitely certifiable or did have a death wish, or _something_ , because on day two, a switch seemed to flip in Barton’s head and he had started yelling at and demeaning the guards whenever they walked in.

 

Sam was getting righteously pissing off, and every time Barton started in on the guards, Sam hissed at him to stop.  After their jailers would leave, he’d try to talk to Barton, and reason with the man.  But Barton never answered – completely ignoring Sam and refusing to give any kind of explanation.  Sam had come to the disturbing conclusion that Barton was seriously dangerous.  Before this, Sam would have put Hawkeye high on his list of people he’d want watching his back in a fight, but if they ever get out of this, he’s going to have a long talk with Cap to let him know that he’s not interested in working with the asshole ever again. 

 

AAAAAAAA

 

“ _Motherfuck!_    Come on, Barton, talk to me!  Barton!  _Clint!_ ” Sam yells across the cell block, but Clint doesn’t respond.  It’s been more than thirty minutes and the only sound that’s come from the man’s cell was a single pained whimper and he’s not even 100% sure he’d really heard that.

 

There had been a lot of blood when Clint walked by - _a lot_ \- coming from multiple places on his face and head and virtually covering the front of his shirt.  But more disconcerting was the dark stain on the back of his pants.  Every step he took across the cellblock left wet, red tracks, which meant that he was still actively bleeding.  Sam’s had training in field medicine and he knows that the implications of that much blood are not good.

 

He’s frantic and furious, pacing his cell and banging on the clear front of it every couple of minutes, hollering for someone to come and help Clint.  But it’s like yelling into a fucking black hole and he’s worked himself up to the point that he’s pretty sure he’s going to kill the next person to walk through the door.  Fortunately, (or unfortunately) the next person to walk through the door is Captain America, or rather, Steve, since he’s not wearing his get-up.  He’s walking across the cellblock and looking maybe the tiniest bit smug until Wanda’s cell comes into his view and he quickly diverts there. 

 

“Steve!” Sam yells, pounding with his fist again.  “ _Steve!_ ”  He wants to tell him to go to Clint, but he realizes that it’s important to get to Wanda, too, because she’s had that _fucking collar_ on her neck and they don’t know what it’s been doing to her.  He stops banging and yelling and waits. 

 

As soon as Steve emerges from Wanda’s cell, though, Sam’s yelling again and gesturing toward Clint.  Steve gets the message and turns in the direction Sam’s pointing, and Sam sees the exact instant that Steve spots Barton when a horrified expression flashes across his face and he sprints to Clint’s cell.  Sam puts his hands on the front of his cell, leaning his weight there and dropping his head between his shoulders; he lets out a shaky breath.  Okay… okay… they’re gonna get out of here.  They’re gonna get Clint some help, and everything’s gonna be fine.  While he waits for Steve to get to him, he keeps telling himself that - hoping against hope that it’s actually true.

 

 AAAAAAAA

 

In a small alcove on the quinjet, Sam works on Clint, trying not to think too much about the task in front of him.  He’s always had to disassociate himself a little when he’s treated friends or acquaintances, though he’s not actually sure which category Barton falls into.  He thinks about his earlier thoughts about Barton – about not wanting to work with him anymore.  He feels guilty for it, though he doesn’t think that this has changed his mind.   Sam’s no kind of person to blame the victim, but this did not need to happen.  He finds he’s still pissed at the man, and he hates himself a little bit for it.  Regardless, it doesn’t affect the gentle care that he gives his patient. 

 

He knows the first thing he needs to do is pack Clint’s wound and try to stop the bleeding.  He finds a pair of scissors and quickly cuts off the prison gear.  He doesn’t let himself get distracted by the myriad other injuries riddled across Barton’s body, instead thinking about the stories Hawkeye told him about the scars he sees.  Once the clothes are sliced through, Sam darts a quick glance up.  “Wanda?  Do you think you could sort of… turn him over?” he asks quietly.

 

She nods and raises her hands, red flickering from her fingers.  Immediately, Clint’s body rises and then rotates around. 

 

“Yeah, great… thanks,” Sam murmurs, and then does his best to clean and sterilize the wounds he can see.  Clint’s still bleeding from his rectum, which is a bad sign, but he packs some anticoagulant bandages into place and hopes that they are enough to stop it.  “Okay, you can put him down now,” he breathes out, relieved to have that finished.

 

Clint’s pallor is grey and his skin feels clammy.  Sam grabs a kit to start to prepare an IV line; he knows he needs to get fluids and plasma into Barton as soon as possible.  “Hey, Tic Tac,” Sam says, startling the man at the end of the gurney.  “Can you go scare up a few blankets?  He’s in shock and we need to keep him warm.”  Scott nods jerkily, his eyes flicking one last time to Clint’s body before he sets off.  “And, Wanda, can you find something to put under his legs to elevate them?” 

 

As she departs wordlessly, he reaches for Clint’s right hand - intending to clean it in order to place the IV there - when he notices for the first time that three of his fingers are badly mangled.  Two of them are not only broken, but also look pulpy and slightly blue.  Sam curses under his breath and moves over to the left hand instead.  First things first – he needs to get that IV line in.

 

Scott and Wanda return with what’s needed and then stay close, lingering around the gurney.

 

“Tell me if you need help,” Lang says, quiet and tentative, and Sam nods without looking up. 

 

Once he gets the line in, he goes back to the right hand, working delicately, trying not to do any further damage.  He cleans it and then splints and bandages it, and he’s really fucking glad that Clint is unconscious because moving those fingers around would have hurt like a motherfucker if he’d been awake.

 

"Hey, Lang, can you grab an icepack out of the med kit over there," Sam gestures over his shoulder and Scott quickly complies.  "Thanks," Sam mumbles, cracking the chemical pack and shaking it to get the reaction going.  When it's good and cold, he sets it very gently onto Clint's damaged hand. 

 

He takes a deep breath and has moved on to start cleaning Clint’s face and torso of the volume of blood there, when comprehension stops him cold, and he stares at his friend.  There’s a dried and crusty substance on Clint’s face that is not blood.  It’s not like it wasn’t clearly obvious to them all that Clint had been raped, but somehow seeing this additional indignity hits Sam hard and his throat closes up, a small noise rising up out of him unbidden.

 

“Sam?” Scott asks nervously, standing up straight.  “What is it?” he asks, fearful concern audible.  Wanda is watching him, too, tension radiating off of her, red sparks skipping from her hands.

 

Sam can’t answer.  He squeezes his eyes tightly shut for a few seconds, then opens them and moves a shaky hand down to gently swipe the offending substance from Clint’s face with alcohol wipes. 

 

“Sam?” Scott asks again, this time with more urgency; he and Wanda have both inched closer to the gurney.  

 

“Nothin’,” Sam eventually answers, not able to meet their eyes.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Sam watches Steve as he follows Natasha back to the cockpit of the quinjet, still a little stunned by what she and Wanda revealed about Clint’s behavior on the Raft.  He tries to take a sip of coffee but is hit with a wave of nausea so strong that he has to bolt for the bathroom, where he mostly dry heaves into the sink. 

 

He doesn’t know how he missed it – the guard eyeing Wanda - but it was hard to see everything from the angles of their cells, and it could have happened when he’d been out of the cellblock.  He’s filled with regret and self-loathing for his previous thoughts about Barton’s recklessness; how he was going to talk to Cap about not wanting to work with Barton again.  Hawkeye’s a goddamn hero, and Sam’s annoyed with himself for not recognizing things for what they were.   He doesn’t understand why Barton didn’t just _tell_ him what was going on, though.

 

He collects himself, splashes cold water in his face, and walks back out into the medical alcove.  Scott’s still trying to sleep in one of the seats, but Wanda is there, not having moved from the side of the gurney.  She’s so young and he hates that he can see the weight of this bearing down on her; none of this was her fault.  He steps up to Clint, looking back and forth between his two friends, and a thought suddenly occurs to him.  “Wanda?” he asks, his voice low and conspiratorial.  “Is there anything you can do?”

 

Wanda jerks her head up and gives Sam a surprised and panicked look.  “No.  I wouldn’t.  Clint doesn’t like people messing with his head.”

 

Sam winces; Cap had told him once about Barton’s run-in with Loki.  “I’m not asking you to mess with his head,” he explains softly.  “I’m asking if you can do anything to fix his _body_.  I… I’m very worried about his hand.”

 

She shakes her head, fast and frustrated.  “No.  It’s not like with thoughts…  I can _move_ things with my mind, but I cannot just think “fix Clint’s hand” and it’s done.  I have to be able to see and understand what I am doing.  I… I don’t know what these things should look like - bones or muscles or veins.  And even if I did, I don’t have control with something so small.  I could make it worse if I tried.”  She sounds angry about it.    

 

Sam nods his understanding.  He hadn’t really thought it would work, but it was worth asking.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

They’re all just helplessly gathered in the hospital corridor waiting for word about Barton that Sam knows won’t come for hours, so he steps over to where Natasha is standing alone, leaning against the wall near a nurses’ station.  “How did you know?” he asks her quietly.

 

“Know what?”

 

“About Barton.  That he was protecting Wanda.”

 

Natasha shrugs a little.  “It’s who he is.  He’s not a fool, Sam; he wouldn’t goad the guards for no reason.  And he’s got a protective streak a mile wide.”

 

Sam shakes his head in frustration.  “Why wouldn’t he say anything?  I thought he was just being as ass – told him as much, too,” he tells her, his voice heavy with regret.

 

Natasha sighs.  “Because he’s not a fool, but he’s an idiot sometimes.  He probably knew you’d try to do something to stop him – just like I would have.”

 

“That doesn’t make sense, Natasha.  I mean, I tried to stop him _anyway_.  What difference would it have made if I’d known _why_ he was doing it?”

 

Natasha looks at him speculatively.

 

“ _What?_ ” Sam presses.  “Explain this to me… please.”

 

Natasha flicks a glance over to the rest of their group then her eyes settle back on Sam.  He’s not sure why she’s being so covert, but it’s making him uneasy.

 

“He was protecting you, too,” she finally says.

 

Sam scoffs.  “What?  Why?  The guards weren’t targeting me.”

 

“He wouldn’t have wanted to take the chance that you’d do the same thing,” she tells him, her voice low.  “If you think he’s just being an ass, then you’d be less likely to join in and attract the guards’ attention onto yourself.”

 

Sam stares at her for a few seconds while that sinks in.  She’s right; because Barton was being such a lightning rod, Sam had made a point of _not_ doing anything to irritate the guards or draw their attention, but if he’d known that was Barton’s game, he’s not sure he could have let him play it alone.  “That stupid son-of-a-bitch…” he mumbles, shaking his head.

 

“Mmmm,” Natasha hums her agreement.

 

“Do you… think he _knew_ what they’d do?” Sam asks reluctantly. 

 

She looks at him for a moment.  He can tell she’s torn about revealing all of this about Clint.  Everyone knows the two of them are especially close and they hold their confidences tightly.  He’s not entirely sure why she’s sharing so much now.  “I’m sure he was prepared for them to retaliate, but it would have been hard to predict exactly how.”  Sam is amazed that Natasha can sound so blasé.  “It wouldn’t have stopped him either way, though,” she adds.

 

Sam makes a disbelieving noise.

 

“Clint’s own well-being is rarely his highest priority,” Natasha elaborates, her voice revealing her displeasure about it.

 

“Jesus…” Sam mutters, suddenly feeling completely wrung out and exhausted; the adrenaline surge he’s had going on for the last several hours finally ebbing.  He swipes an open palm down his face and blows out a loud breath.  “Will he be okay?” he asks quietly.

 

Natasha shoots a glance over his shoulder at the rest of their group, sitting quietly in chairs by the wall, then slides her eyes back to Sam.  “He’s strong,” is all she says before she pushes herself off the wall and walks away.

 

Sam shifts around and takes the spot Natasha just vacated against the wall, then slides down until he’s sitting on the floor, forearms resting on his knees.  He can practically feel the adrenaline seeping out of him now and he can’t stop himself from leaning his head back and closing his eyes.  The next thing he’s aware of, Natasha is hustling all of them, except Steve, out of the hall.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Life in limbo in Wakanda is boring.  They can’t leave the compound and have been instructed to keep a low profile.  That’s easier for Sam, who can blend in with the local population much better than the rest of them.  He’s a little worried about Lang, though, who's been walking around outside almost constantly – not exactly low profile, since a white man walking in a daze is pretty damn conspicuous here.  But so far, no one has told him to stop.  Sam wishes he had his wings, then at least he could maybe fly around a little at night when no one would see, but Nat had had to leave the dismantled parts on the Raft, in favor of Scott’s suit.

 

He spends his days pouring through the news, using a tablet to read every newspaper he possibly can, plus a lot of websites.  There’s been nothing about the Avengers or their fate – Ross apparently making sure that the public was never told of their confinement on the Raft, nor their subsequent escape.  A few papers and websites are speculating, and there are all kinds of conspiracy theories swirling around.  Some of them are surprisingly close to the truth. 

 

Cap’s been working hard to figure out how to help Barnes and to find a way out of this mess for all of them.  Sam can see that Steve is feeling the weight of the mantle of leadership, but he’s bearing up under it and holding steady.  The two of them meet every night and talk – Sam catching Steve up on what he’s learned from the internet, and Steve telling him about his conversations with T’Challa and his political advisors.  So far, there’s no solution for their predicament, but somehow Sam has confidence that Captain America will come up with something eventually.  Steve insists he’s no longer Captain America, but Sam knows that it has nothing to do with the uniform and everything to do with the man and who he is.

  

Sam spends a lot of time with Barton, going to visit a few times a day.  By unspoken agreement, they try to make sure that Clint is never alone, even if he’s sleeping.  Coulson’s almost always there, having barely left the room since he arrived.  But as often as not, at least one other of them is there as well; either he or Natasha or Steve - now that Cap’s got over his guilt enough and finally started to visit.  Sam hadn’t been sure whether to laugh or wince at Steve’s painfully awkward attempts to act normal and _not_ _awkward._ He hasn’t quite hit the mark yet, but the guy gets props for trying.  Wanda and Lang still haven’t made an appearance, but Sam’s confident they just need a little more time:  Wanda, to get over her anger; and Lang, to come to grips with everything that’s happened.

 

Right now, though, it’s just Sam, because Phil has left Clint in his care while he steps out to get cleaned up and make some calls; Natasha’s disappeared with a cryptic, “I’ll be back in a couple days”; and Cap’s meeting with T’Challa. 

 

Sam is reading in the chair next to the bed when Clint starts to abruptly stir out of his sleep.  Before his eyes are even open, Sam’s up and grabbing the cup of ice water from the tray, arranging the straw and getting ready to offer it to his friend, knowing he’ll want it to soothe his still-tender throat. 

 

Since the first time he heard Clint’s raw voice after he’d woken up, Sam’s fixated on it in an unhealthy way - his thoughts bordering on obsessive.  He knows that Clint was choked – the bruises on his neck were clear enough indication of that – and near-strangulation could easily cause the kind of damage and inflammation that would affect his voice this way.  But Sam keeps reliving the moment he found semen residue on Barton’s face, and even though he desperately wants to, he can’t stop himself from thinking about how Clint’s damaged voice might have been caused by something else.

 

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head minutely, trying to chase the thoughts from his mind.

 

“You okay, man?” Clint croaks and then tries to clear his throat, grimacing at the effort.

 

“I’m fine,” Sam answers quickly.  “Here, drink some water before you try to talk,” he adds, holding the straw so Clint can grab it between his lips. 

 

Clint takes a few small sips.  “Thanks,” he rumbles and tries to clear his throat again, wincing as he uses his good hand to sluggishly push the cup away from his mouth.

 

“No problem,” Sam tells him, setting the cup back down on the tray.  “Hey, you, uh, you want something to eat?” Sam asks as he picks up the lukewarm bowl of rich-smelling soup that Coulson had implored him to try to get Clint to eat. 

 

Clint scrunches up his nose in distaste.  “Nah,” he says lightly.  “Not hungry,” he adds, giving a dismissing wave in the general direction of the bowl. 

 

“You sure?  Coulson said-”

 

“And _I_ said I’m not hungry,” Clint snaps, glaring at him.

 

Sam stares at him for a few seconds and then sets the bowl back on the table with no comment.

 

Barton closes his eyes for a second.  “Look, man.  I’m sorry.  I’m just…” he stops and sighs.  “Maybe later, okay?” he apologizes, giving Sam a slightly beseeching look that clearly asks him to drop it.

 

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say,” Sam tells him and the look of relief on Clint’s face is painfully obvious.  “Hey, you wanna play cards or something?  Trivia Crack?”  Among the many things Sam’s learned about Clint in the last handful of days, is that while Barton for some reason downplays his intelligence, he’s actually very smart.  And he kicks everyone’s ass at Trivia Crack, knocking out answers without a thought.

 

“Nah.  Think I’ll just tune out for a while,” Clint responds, already reaching for his phone and earbuds.  “Hope you don’t mind.”

 

Sam gives him a considering look.

 

“What?” Clint asks, sounding defensive.

 

Sam squints at him.  “I’m trying to figure out if you don’t like my company, you’re isolating yourself as an obvious attempt at avoidance, or you just really like R&B.”

 

Clint snorts.  “All of the above?” he answers, eyebrows raised.

 

“Fuck you, Barton, I’m great company,” Sam retorts.

 

Clint shakes his head a little.  “You’re such a dick, Wilson,” Barton tells him, but Sam hears humor and warmth beneath the words. 

 

Sam watches as Clint tries to pretend it doesn’t hurt like hell to lift his arm to put the earbuds in, but he knows better than to try to help.  It’s actually painful to _watch_ , so he sits down and goes back to scanning the news on his tablet.  They sit in silence for a long time, doing their own thing.  Clint seems fine, not particularly stressed, and as nurses periodically come and go, he barely seems to register their presence.  More often than not, though, when Sam glances up to do a quick check on his friend, he finds Clint staring at his heavily bandaged right hand.  Eventually, Sam sets the tablet aside and reaches up to pull an earbud out of Clint’s ear.  Clint flinches and his left arm jolts up defensively.

 

“What?” he snaps, irritated, though it isn’t clear to Sam if Clint’s irritated with _him_ , for interrupting his music, or with _himself_ , for startling so obviously. 

 

“You, uh, you keep looking at your hand,” Sam observes, nodding in the direction of Clint’s right hand.  “What’s going on?  Something wrong?”

 

“No, it’s fine,” Clint tells him then shrugs, his left hand picking at something on the blanket.  “It’s weird, though… I don’t remember them breaking my fingers,” he eventually continues, staring at his hand in frustration.  After a few seconds, he looks over at Sam. “Isn’t it weird that I wouldn’t remember that?”

 

Sam shrugs.  “There was a lot going on.  Maybe-”

 

“No,” Clint interrupts him, shaking his head.  “I remember all of the rest of it,” he says decisively, looking down at his hand again.  “Every punch, every bruise, every… turn they took.  I remember it all.  Why wouldn’t I remember them breaking my fingers?”  He shifts an uneasy glance back to Sam.

 

Sam’s come to understand a lot about the man on the bed in the last few days - how his self-worth is tied up in knowing he can protect the people around him.  It makes sense that if he thought the guards were on the verge of taking away his ability to do that, his brain might shut down and block that out. 

 

“Self-preservation, maybe?” he suggests.  “Too traumatic?” he adds gently, with an eyebrow cocked. 

 

Clint snorts.  “They had their dicks in me for like, _an hour_ , and I remember every bit of that.  You think a few broken fingers was too traumatic?” he asks skeptically.

 

Sam blinks at Barton’s surprisingly honest words. 

 

“Okay, well, first of all, the fact that you can say that reassures me some about your long-term prognosis.” Clint snorts at that, too.  “But… you rely on your hands to do your job,” Sam continues with another shrug.  “Without them you can’t hold a bow.  Maybe the rest of it…” he pauses, wanting to choose his words carefully, “seems less… significant to you.” 

 

Clint stares at his bandaged hand.  “Maybe…” he answers distractedly, then shakes himself out of it and looks up at Sam. “I fucking _hate_ not remembering, though.”

 

“Give it time,” Sam tries to reassure him.  “It might come back eventually.”

 

Clint doesn’t say anything for several long minutes, just fiddles with his earbud between his fingers.  Eventually, Sam picks up his tablet and starts to read again.   A couple minutes after that, Sam sees Clint in his peripheral vision, using his good hand to pick at the bandages a little.

 

“Maybe it’s better if it doesn’t,” Clint murmurs, barely loud enough for Sam to hear. 

 

When Sam lifts his head to look at him, Clint’s already slipped the earbud back in and his eyes are closed; he doesn’t say anything more.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

They haven’t all been together as a group since they’d left the hospital the day they arrived in Wakanda, but Lang is leaving tomorrow so Steve has insisted that the five (not including Clint) ‘Renegade Avengers’ (as Lang coined them, and for some reason, none of the rest of them objected) come to his apartment for dinner so they can all say their good-byes.  Sam knows it’s important to Cap that they stay connected to each other when they are so far from home and their futures so uncertain.  Despite what Sam knows are Steve’s doubts about his role as team leader, based on what he sees around the table right now, they are unfounded; they _are_ connected, and Steve is clearly their leader.

 

Dinner is mostly over but they are all still sitting around the table when Steve turns to Natasha.  “You saw Clint this afternoon?” he asks, and everyone directs their attention there.  So far tonight they haven’t discussed Clint at all, but Sam knows they are all keenly feeling his absence.   

 

Natasha nods.  “Yes.”

 

He tips his head toward Nat and asks quietly, “How’s he doing?”

 

“You’ve seen him,” she points out, her eyebrow raised.  “He said you were there this morning.”

 

Steve sighs.  “Yeah, well, he always says he’s fine, but… you know him better than the rest of us, Nat.  Is he really fine?” he asks, sounding unconvinced.

 

Natasha shrugs.  “He’ll come through it okay.  He’s resilient.”

 

Sam sets down his glass of wine and sits straighter; this seems like his cue to say what he’s been thinking for a while now.  “He’s got PTSD,” he asserts, and everyone turns to look at him.

 

Natasha narrows her eyes a little.  “We don’t know that,” she says evenly. 

 

“Don’t we?” Sam replies.  “You know, you’re not helping him by ignoring it.  He’s having nightmares, Nat,” he says, unfolding one finger on his hand.   “Snapping at people,” he continues, another finger up.  “He also startles easily and is alternating between hypervigilance and complete disregard for what’s going on around him.  Do I need to go on?” he asks impatiently, with four fingers now open.

 

Natasha narrows her eyes further and purses her lips at him. 

 

“Okay…” he continues resolutely, sticking his thumb up.  “He has no memory of them breaking his fingers even though he remembers every other detail of the assault, and… _Jesus, Nat_ …” he leans forward and challenges her with his eyes, “…you know he’s not eating because anything he puts in his mouth has to come out eventually and he’s obviously trying to avoid being triggered.”

 

Steve blanches and makes a distressed sound.

 

“Look, I’m sorry,” he says, flicking a glance over to Steve but then looking back at Natasha.  “But I’ve worked with a lot of people with PTSD and the worst thing you can do is try to pretend nothing happened and hope it will just go away by itself,” Sam argues.

 

“It hasn’t even been a week,” Natasha counters with an edge to her voice now.  “Of course he’s jumpy and hypervigilant.  He may be struggling at the moment, but I know him, and long-term, he’ll be fine.”

 

“I agree that’s a possibility,” Sam answers.  “But I think the important part of what you just said is that _he’s struggling_.  If he _is_ , why wouldn’t you reach out and give him a hand, instead of waiting to see if he’ll _maybe_ be okay without it?”

 

Natasha doesn’t respond, crossing her arms and looking away, but he can tell she’s considering what he’s said.

 

“Look, _he’s_ talking about what happened - even if it is obliquely – and that’s probably because he either consciously or unconsciously understands that he needs to deal with this shit if he wants to move on.  So we all need to help him out with that.  Trust me, he’ll feel a lot better if we all address the issues instead of acting like they don’t exist.”

 

“What are you suggesting, Sam?” Steve asks, his words still sounding slightly choked in his throat.

 

“Just… don’t ignore the elephant in the room.  Don’t pretend nothing happened.  It’s okay to talk about it.”

 

“Is it really a good idea to remind him of… what happened?” Steve asks, his discomfort with the idea audible.

 

“Listen,” Sam leans forward earnestly, looking at each of them.  “We’ve been working with new ideas about PTSD and memory at the V.A.  There’s a school of thought that says that the worst thing you can do with a traumatic memory is try to repress it, because it’s those memories that tend to blindside you and lead to a PTSD reaction.  If you try to forget, then when those memories _do_ come forward, they tend to be clearer… sharper… more tied to emotion.  But memories that are recalled often – like anything - they sort of, _wear out_.  They become less distinct, less attached to emotion, and thereby less traumatic.  I’ve seen it work – it can help.”

 

When he finishes, all of them are staring at him slightly wide-eyed.

 

“So… are you saying we’re supposed to try to get him to talk about what they did to him, over and over?” Scott asks uncertainly, shifting uneasily in his chair.

 

“No, I’m not saying that.  I mean, _yes_ , ultimately I think that could help in the long run, and that’s a direct approach we take with some people.  But that’s something he would only do in a more structured therapy setting,” he tells them, and he can tell they’re all a little bit relieved.  “Just don’t pretend like nothing happened.  If he says something about the Raft, talk to him… listen to him… take the conversation to its logical conclusion instead of changing the subject.  Just… be his friend.”

 

There’s silence around the table as they all take that in. 

 

Sam shifts in his seat a little, and figuring there’s no time like the present, he turns toward Lang.  “While we’re on the subject, Tic Tac, you might want to think about talking to someone, yourself, when you get back home.”

 

Lang’s head shoots up in surprise.  “What?  Why?  They didn’t do anything to me…”

 

“Traumatic experiences don’t have be physical,” he answers.  “Just like survivor guilt doesn’t only occur when someone dies,” he adds, staring at Scott for a second, then sliding his gaze across to Steve and Wanda.  Steve shifts uneasily, and Sam can tell he’s just feeling guilty all over again; Wanda just glares at him.

 

“I’m fine,” Scott tells him automatically and there is general scoffing from the rest of them.  He looks at the dubious expressions around the table and sighs.  “I’m just trying to… make sense of all of this,” he says, waving his hand vaguely around his head.

 

Sam stares at Scott for a few seconds.  “You realize you just made my point for me, right?” he says slowly.

 

Scott blinks at him.  “Oh…” he furrows his brow, considering, then gives Sam a sheepish look.  “Yeah, okay… I’ll think about it.”

 

Natasha suddenly scrapes her chair back from the table, startling the others.  “Well, I’m about done with the ‘Renegade Avengers Group Therapy Hour,” she says, standing up and starting to pick up plates.  “Anyone want to help with the dishes?”

 

A minute later it’s just Sam and Wanda left at the table.

 

“I do not feel guilty,” she tells him firmly, glaring at him. 

 

“Okay… how do you feel?”

 

Wanda exhales loudly through her nose and turns her face away without answering.

 

“Who are you angry at, Wanda?”

 

Wanda turns back to him.  “You know who.”

 

Sam nods slowly.  “I think I do, but do you?” he raises an eyebrow at her.

 

“Clint was a fool to do what he did!”

 

Sam cocks his head at her.  “That’s open to interpretation,” he says as a horrifying image of the guards attacking Wanda comes to him.  “But… that doesn’t really answer the question,” he points out.

 

Wanda stares at him with a thunderous expression and red flickers off her fingers.  A painting that’s hung on the wall suddenly falls to the floor.

 

Sam looks at the painting and then back at Wanda.  “I know this is uncomfortable for you, Wanda, but I think maybe it would be good for you to talk about it, instead of holding everything inside.” He flicks his eyes back and forth again.  “It seems like that can be a little dangerous.”

 

She glares at him for a few more seconds and then stands abruptly and leaves, slamming the door to Steve’s apartment behind her.

 

Sam leans his elbows on the table and rubs his hands over his weary face, sighing deeply.  This shit is exhausting.

 

“Everything okay?” Steve asks, poking his head back into the dining room.

 

Sam looks up at him.  “I think I made Wanda mad,” he answers, nodding at the fallen painting and laughing a little bit.  It’s not really funny, though. 

 

Steve snorts.  “Join the club,” he says as he sits back down.  “How’re _you_ doing, Sam,” he asks softly.

 

Sam sighs.  “You guys wear me out, you know that?  Every single one of you is fucked up,” he says, then barks another laugh before shaking his head.  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.  And it’s not like I’m any better.”

 

“It’s okay,” Steve says, giving him a genuine smile.  “You know, you don’t need to feel responsible for us.”

 

“Oh, that’s just your job, huh?” Sam asks tiredly.

 

Steve pauses for second.  “Yes.  It is,” he answers firmly.  “We’re going to get through this, Sam,” he says with confidence.  “ _All_ of us,” he adds with finality. 

 

Sam nods his agreement, because if he believes in nothing else, he believes in Captain America.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I make no claims at having any kind of background in psychology (except for a psych 101 class in college), but I heard a radio program on NPR a few years back on the topic of memory and PTSD that discussed the concept that Sam talks about at the end of this chapter. I remember finding it really interesting at the time and the idea stuck with me, so, I swear, I didn't actually make it up. ; ) 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I always love to hear your thoughts! : D
> 
> Next up: Tony


	6. Tony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Lexx_Ishi, Singing Wolf and dentalfloss for the read-throughs and feedback. And to KippyVee for the thorough beta. I appreciate all of you!

 

 

**Tony:**

 

Tony walks into the kitchen, beelines over to the refrigerator and pulls out a carton of juice, drinking directly from it.  He hasn’t really eaten anything for… a while – he’s not actually sure how long – so he gulps sort of desperately.  He’s wrung out and exhausted and depressed as fuck about Rhodey, and he’s not even allowing himself to think about the rest of it.   He finally sets the carton down and is wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he realizes it’s taken him at least thirty seconds to register Natasha’s reflection in the window.  Tony forces himself not to startle and to stay outwardly calm. 

 

When she sees him finally notice her, she takes a few steps closer and crosses her arms.

 

“Back so soon?” he asks, looking at her reflection rather than turning to face her, the sting of their last conversation still lingering.  “Be careful, Widow, people might talk,” he adds, then brings the carton up to his mouth again, gripping it tightly to still the fine tremor that he can feel will manifest otherwise.  Low blood sugar - probably.   

 

Natasha shrugs.  “Let them.  Besides, any press is good press.  Isn’t that the Stark motto?”

 

“Did Captain America send you?”  Tony asks cuttingly, glaring at her reflection.

 

“Contrary to what you might think, Tony, I’m not Steve’s errand girl.”  Her face is a cool mask.

 

He snorts his disbelief at that and casually takes another drink. 

 

Natasha takes one step closer, uncrossing her arms.  “I wasn’t insincere when I signed the Accords, Tony.  I _did_ think it was the right thing to do at the time.”

 

“Mmmm,” he acknowledges, nodding benignly before his face morphs into something harder.  He slams the carton on the counter and finally turns to face her.  “But I guess loyalty wasn’t on the syllabus in the Red Room, was it?” he jabs, knowing it’s a low blow but not caring at all.

 

Natasha doesn’t take the bait.  “Disagreeing with your friends is one thing, Tony,” she says calmly.  “It… became something else that I didn’t sign up for, and if you would stop feeling sorry for yourself for two seconds you’d be able to understand that.”

 

“I’m not feeling sorry for myself.  I’m feeling _betrayed!"_ Tony snaps, then quickly regains his composure.  “Anyway, at least I know where I stand with all of you, now,” he says as he leans against the counter and folds his arms across his chest.

 

Natasha sighs.  “We’re your _friends_ , Tony.  We always were and we still are.  We all need each other now more than ever.”

 

“Yeah?  That’s a new tune from you.”

 

Natasha shrugs.  “Not really,” she answers, an expression on her face that he can’t decipher. 

 

But Tony’s not particularly interested in making nice.  He’s reeling over Rhodey’s injuries – devastated by what’s happened to his friend.  Hurt that when push came to shove, people he thought were his friends didn’t have his back.  Instead of taking the olive branch she seems to be offering, he lashes out.  “You know, I should have known you’d never side against that asshole, Barton.”  He sees her stiffen minutely at that, and he’s pleased with himself - it’s not an easy thing to get Widow to react.  It spurs him on.   “That was my first mistake, I guess – believing that the two of you weren’t conspiring behind my back.  I should have known – the way the two of you are thick as thieves.  I’ve always wanted to ask, by the way, how does Coulson feel about your cozy little relationship with his fuck toy?” 

 

She doesn’t react, exactly, but there’s something in the way she blinks at him that gives him pause.  “You probably want to stop talking now, Tony,” Natasha says evenly, but with clear warning in her voice.

 

But Tony isn’t deterred that easily.  “That hit a little too close to home?” he asks with a satisfied smirk.

 

She just purses her lips and stares at him.

 

“What’s the matter?  Did he disappear after Cap sprang his merry band of criminals from prison?  Run off with Coulson again and leave you behind?  Hawkeye must be pretty fucking awesome in the sack, the way the two of you are…”

 

He doesn’t even register that she’s moving before she’s on him, choking off his words with an arm around his neck and the tip of a blade biting dangerously close to his jugular.  “I said, _stop_ ,” her voice is still calm, but it’s low and menacing.

 

“Touchy, touchy…” Tony rasps, her arm cutting off some of his airflow.  “Careful, Widow, you’re letting your human side show.  Hit a sore spot, did I?”  Tony cocks an eyebrow, doing his best to sound smug and not show the real fear he has for his life.  He’s pretty sure Natasha wouldn’t kill him.  Pretty sure – but not positive.

 

She lets out a frustrated breath and then as fast as the knife appeared, it disappears, and Natasha takes a quick step back and away.  “You want to be careful,” she warns him.  “Or you might say something you’ll regret.”

 

“I never regret what I say,” he fires back, putting a hand to his neck, then looking at the small smear of blood on his fingertip.  “Especially if it’s the truth,” he tells her, but there’s a small flicker of doubt in his mind and he’s growing more uneasy at their exchange by the moment.  She’s looking at him and she looks… bothered… which doesn’t make sense at all, and his mind is moving at warp speed to try to understand what’s really going on here.  After a minute though, Natasha blinks and she is, once again the cool, composed assassin Tony knows her to be. 

 

He’s so tired.  Alone.  Hell… lonely, knowing that the people he called his friends are beyond reach now.  Grief and anger flare in his gut again.  “What are you doing here?” he asks impatiently, suddenly wanting nothing more than for Widow to leave.  “Come to gloat some more?”

 

“I’m here to see how Rhodey is… and to give you some news,” she tells him, cocking her head a little. 

 

There’s something there, in her tone, that makes him pause and eye her with interest.  He knows there’s more to the story here, but he can’t get past his feeling of betrayal enough to stop and sort it out in his mind.  “Yeah?  You want to know about Rhodey?” he asks sharply.  “He’s lying on his back in rehab while you and the rest of his so-called friends are living it up in Wakanda… And if you’re here with news about Barnes, I’m not interested – unless you’re going to tell me he’s dead.  And if he is, be sure to tell Cap to send me an invite to the wake.  That one, I’d be happy to attend.”

 

“It’s not about Barnes.”

 

He stares at her for a second and his hand moves toward the tiny cut on his neck again.  “Oh, I see,” he huffs smugly.  “This _does_ have something to do with Barton.  Is that what’s got you losing control like that?  What happened?  I know T’Challa wasn’t overly fond of him – did Wakanda not give your boyfriend a hero’s welcome?”

 

Natasha ducks her head and rubs her eyes with her fingers.  “Stop talking, Tony _.  Please_ ,” she pleads softly, her voice suddenly weary and sad. 

 

The tone and gesture are so foreign coming from her that his brain stalls and he feels a cold sweat break on his body.  The mood in the room has shifted dramatically and suddenly all his previous anger and belligerence are gone; this is his friend, and there’s something very wrong.  “Natasha?” he asks, more gently than any words they’ve exchanged so far.  He pushes away from the counter and takes a small step closer to her as his mind races with all the horrible possibilities.  “What’s going on?”

 

When she looks up, he sees a look of pure pain flicker across her face.  She gives him a sad smile - looks embarrassed at her show of weakness - then straightens and looks into his eyes as though she’s daring herself to.  “There was an incident on the Raft.”

 

He pauses for a second, confused, mind racing.  “No, I… I saw all of them just before... they were fine.  Excep…” he sucks in a breath remembering the barbaric contraption he’d seen on Wanda’s neck.  “Wanda?” he asks, with a sudden spike of worry.

 

Natasha’s eyes meet his and she shakes her head minutely, her mouth in a tight line.

 

When she doesn’t elaborate, Tony realizes he was right all along.  “Barton,” he says, and it’s not really a question. 

 

Natasha blinks and even though she doesn't confirm, he can tell by the very controlled breath she lets out that's he's right.

 

“What happened?” Tony asks hesitantly, feeling slightly sick and pretty sure he’s not going to want to hear what she has to say. 

 

She doesn’t answer immediately and he takes a couple steps closer to her.

 

“Tell me,” he demands.  “ _Please,_ ” he adds, a little softer, a little desperately, because now he _needs_ to know.

 

Natasha visibly steels herself, but when she speaks, her voice is surprisingly quiet.  “One of the guards spent a little too much time eyeing Wanda.  Clint… took exception.”

 

After a beat, Tony presses.  “ _And?”_ he asks reluctantly, a sinking feeling in his gut; he knows that stupid son-of-a-bitch, Barton.

 

Natasha stares and hesitates.  Then firms her lips a little before speaking.  “A group of guards…” she starts, then stops and seems to regroup.  “Three broken fingers, bruised kidney, fractured ribs, fractured orbital bone, tracheal bruising, a mess of other bruises and contusions, torn shoulder muscles,” she lists dispassionately, then flicks her gaze away and back. 

 

Tony searches her face as he takes that in.  He pauses, thinking about the injuries she’s just recited.  “That…” he swallows.  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” Tony ventures hopefully, but that sinking feeling in his gut hasn’t gone away.  “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it sounds painful as shit and it sucks.  But, Legolas has had worse…” his words trail off because he can tell there’s more to it.  Both Hawkeye and Widow have brushed off these kinds of injuries before, but he’s never seen Natasha this on-edge when her other half has landed in medical.

 

She looks at him, her body vibrating tension but her face a blank mask, and that’s somehow more disconcerting than the emotion she’d shown earlier.  “There were other… more personal injuries,” she adds neutrally.

 

It takes him a few second to decipher what she means by that, and when understanding hits, Tony’s breath leaves him like a punch to the gut and he squeezes his eyes shut tightly.  It's hitting him like a freight train that none of it ever would have happened – to Clint, to Rhodey - if it weren’t for him.  He turns and takes two quick steps back over to the counter.  “ _FUCK!_ ” he yells as he picks up the carton of juice and hurls it violently across the room, spewing orange liquid everywhere.  _“Fuckfuckfuck!”_

 

He vaguely registers that Natasha stands back a few steps as he grabs everything within reach and hurls it in a fit of pure fury. 

 

When there’s nothing else within reach to throw or destroy, he leans on the counter and drops his head between his shoulders, breathing heavily.  “Every time I try to do the right thing – _every time_ \- it turns out to be the _worst_ fucking thing imaginable,” his voice is strained and breaking.

 

He can feel Natasha’s eyes on him, but he can’t quite bring himself to look at her.  “Not every time,” he hears her say a moment later.  “There was that one time you ordered pizza and got everyone exactly what they liked.”

 

Tony barks a humorless laugh and turns his head to look at her in time to see the tiniest sympathetic smile on her face.  He’s sure that she must be able to see his eyes are shining but he doesn’t care.  “You are so _bad_ at making people feel better.”

 

“I know,” she acknowledges with a shrug, her face morphing back to complete seriousness.  Then, “I didn’t tell you to make you feel bad, Tony.”

 

“Why _did_ you tell me?”

 

“Because Clint is your friend and I thought you’d want to know.  Just like we all want to know about Rhodey.”

 

“Yeah, thanks,” Tony says very quietly turning his gaze toward the darkness beyond the windows.  He takes a deep breath and looks back at her.  “But I feel pretty fucking bad.”

 

“You and Steve both,” Natasha murmurs.

 

Tony shakes his head and makes an indeterminate sound – he sincerely does not want to think about the clusterfuck of his relationship with Steve right now.  Instead he stands up straight to meet this challenge head-on, because if there’s one thing Tony always does, it’s find a way to keep moving forward.  “What can I do?”

 

Natasha shrugs.  “Nothing.”

 

“Come on… I must be able to throw some money at this or something.  What does Barton need?  You name it, I’ll get it for him.”

 

“He doesn’t need anything you can buy, Tony.  He’s got the best medical care Wakanda can provide,” she tells him.  “Coulson’s with him,” she adds.

 

“Right, Coulson…” Tony huffs ruefully, “…Jesus…”  He turns away from her again and wipes a tired hand down his face.  He reruns the last few minutes of their conversation and feels like such an asshole for the shitty, insensitive digs he’d made about Clint and Natasha and Coulson.  Despite what he’d said, the truth is, he’s always been a little impressed at how Barton and Coulson had somehow managed to carve out what is, by all accounts, a solid, stable relationship, despite the insanity of the lives they lead.  

 

“He’s going to be okay, Tony,” Natasha tells him with a conviction in her voice that has him wondering if it’s him she’s trying to convince him, or herself.

 

Tony turns back around to face her.  “Right… ‘cause that kind of thing is so easy to walk away from,” he says bitterly, his self-reproach obvious.   

 

Natasha hesitates.  “He always manages to walk away,” she says softly.

 

He stares at her and eventually nods a little – she might be right.  If anyone can bounce back from something like this, it’s probably Barton.  Tony’s never seen anything keep the guy down for long.  But, _this_ … _fuck…_ this is different.  Tony’s mind is swirling with so many regrets that he can’t think straight.

 

Natasha watches him impassively.  “I have to go.  I know Friday made a call.”

 

“Yeah,” Tony sighs and look at his watch.  “You’ve got about three minutes.”

 

“I know,” she says, but doesn’t move and he looks at her curiously.  "It's never a bad thing to want to do the right thing, you know?" she tells him eventually.

 

Tony stares at her with damp eyes for a moment, then blinks and steps around the counter to start picking up the mess he made.  “So, hey, thanks for stopping by,” he quips, mask firmly back in place, and grabs an upended chair, righting it.  “Let’s do it again soon.”  He doesn’t feel anywhere near as light as his words imply.

 

Natasha eyes him intently.  “Take care of yourself, Tony.  And tell Rhodey to stay strong.”  She turns and moves noiselessly toward the door.

 

“Hey, Natasha…?” he stops her just as she’s about to leave.

 

She turns half-way around and raises an eyebrow.

 

“Tell Clint…” he stops, because what the hell can she tell Clint that could ever make up for the fucking wreck of a situation he’s caused?

 

She waits a few seconds, then gives him a sad smile.  “I will,” she tells him, and then she’s gone.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Tony eases his way down the quiet corridor, making his way to Barton’s room.  He’s not sure what’s drawn him here to Wakanda, other than his unstoppable need to _know_ \- his supreme dislike of not having answers to any and every situation.  He knows he’s unlikely to get a friendly reception.  It’s okay; he can deal with that.  He’s used to rejection – he’s had a lot in his life – and he’s good at fronting.  But right now he just needs to _know_ that Barton is really okay – or is going to _be_ okay – because he can’t bear the idea of another team member broken because of him.   And if he is broken, he needs to know that, too; he’s always been a bit of a masochist that way. 

 

He can feel the flip phone in his pocket and for the hundredth time today he thinks about opening it up and making a call.  And for the hundredth time today, he sets that thought aside - but knowing he’ll come back to it later. 

 

He makes it all the way to the door without anyone seeming to notice him, only to find himself face to face with Phil Coulson, who has just stepped out of Barton’s room into the hallway. 

 

“Mr. Stark,” Phil says, his eyebrows raised, clearly surprised, and immediately on guard.

 

Tony tenses.  “Agent… er, Director.  Good to see you again.” 

 

Coulson eyes him suspiciously.  He doesn’t miss that Phil doesn’t return the sentiment.

 

“To what do we owe this pleasure?” Coulson asks him calmly, but not really sounding like it’s much of a pleasure.

 

Tony shrugs.  “Oh, you know.  I hear Wakanda’s nice this time of year.”

 

“It’s 120 degrees outside,” Coulson deadpans.

 

“Yeah, well, it’s a dry heat.”

 

“No, it’s not, actually.  The daily humidity averages 87% this time of year in Wakanda,” Coulson replies, not giving an inch.

 

Tony gives an exasperated huff.  “ _Jesus-_ come on, work with a guy here, Coulson!”

 

One of Coulson’s hands slides casually to his hip; Tony knows there’s a gun or weapon of some kind hidden within reach, and he rolls his eyes dramatically, hoping it covers the real fear he’s suddenly feeling.  “I’m not going to _do_ anything to him.”

 

Coulson cocks his head the tiniest bit.  “Then what is it you _do_ plan to do here, Mr. Stark?” his voice is cold.

 

Tony shifts uneasily, his gaze flicking past Coulson and through the window into Barton’s room, where he can see the man lying in bed.  The room’s pretty dark, but Christ, from what he can see, Barton looks like he went ten rounds with the Hulk.  “Natasha told me what happened on the Raft.  I just wanted to… check in on him.  See how he’s doing.”

 

Coulson stares at him, and it’s more unnerving than Tony would like to admit. 

 

Coulson cocks his head.  “How did you find him?” he eventually asks.

 

“Are you kidding?” Tony scoffs.  “Do you really think it’s that hard to find six displaced super heroes?”

 

Tony registers Coulson stiffen minutely; the gesture is so tiny that if Coulson were an ordinary man, Tony would say that he hadn’t reacted at all.  But Coulson has never been what Tony considers ordinary, so _that,_ he knows, was pure panic.

 

“Relax,” Tony tells him quickly.  “They weren’t hard for _me_ to find.  People with normal brains and tech – not so much.”  But Coulson still seems very much on edge, so he adds, “Look, I’ve known they were here since the minute they landed, Robocop.  I haven’t told anyone,” he adds, hoping he’s infused enough sincerity to make Coulson believe him and not drop him right here.  He and Coulson have a long and sometimes rocky history, but he thinks they have a grudging respect for each other and he hopes Coulson knows him well enough to know that despite everything, Tony wouldn’t show up here at Clint’s hospital room with nefarious intent.

 

He can’t tell for sure - Tony _thinks_ that puts him at ease - but Coulson’s still pinning him with his piercing blue eyes and it’s starting to give him the heebie-jeebies.  Tony shifts uncomfortably.  “Listen.  I just wanted to see if there’s anything I can do…”

 

Coulson watches him for long moments and then his gaze turns thoughtful.  He expects Coulson to say something to the effect of ‘ _I think you’ve done quite enough already_ ’.  So what he does say rather surprises him.

 

“Actually…” Coulson starts, cocking an eyebrow at him and possibly sounding amused.  “Clint’s been bitching that he can’t get the Major League Baseball channel, though given that we’re in Africa, it shouldn’t really be a big surprise to him.  Anything you might be able to do to help with that?  It’s beyond my capabilities and I’m lost without my go-to IT person.”

 

Tony doesn’t bother asking who that might be - he’s just glad to be able to do something.  “Yeah, sure, I can do that,” he answers, already reaching for his phone.  “Just MLB Prime, or all the team channels, too?” he asks, pecking away at the keypad.

 

“He really only wants to watch the Cubs,” Coulson says, his voice low, as though it’s some big secret.  But Tony and Barton have had a running Cubs vs. Mets argument since they met, and he knows how Barton loves a lost cause.  “They’re having a good year,” Phil adds, shrugging his shoulders dismissively, as though that is his motivation, rather than the affection Tony has heard creep into Coulson’s voice. 

 

“Gimme a few minutes,” he says, already absorbed in his task.  He can feel his body relax into the work – he’s always been much more comfortable if he has something to do.

 

In his peripheral vision, he sees Coulson nod perfunctorily.  “Great.  That might make him a little more tolerable until he’s able to hold a bow again,” he says.  “Give Colonel Rhodes my best,” he adds, and if that doesn’t sound like a dismissal, Tony doesn’t know what does.

 

Tony lifts his head from his phone and glances behind Coulson to Barton’s door before confronting the Wall of Coulson again; he’s only an inch taller than Tony, but at this moment the man projects an impenetrable massiveness.  “So, uh, seriously.  Is he… is he gonna be okay?” Tony asks him hesitantly.  “‘Cause Widow said he’d be fine, but, you know Barton.  He’d say he’s just fine when, I don’t know, his spleen is falling out of him or something…”

 

Coulson stares at him discerningly for a long few moments and Tony shifts uncomfortably again, darting an uneasy glance down the hall.  Coulson cocks his head.  “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Stark,” he says slowly, as though he’s still making a decision.  “Clint should be awake again in a little while.  If you want, you can go in and decide for yourself.”

 

Tony startles at the offer, and a wave of relief floods over him.  He’s about to open his mouth to thank the man for trusting him, when Coulson interrupts.

 

“I’ll be right over there,” he gestures with his head to the bank of chairs against the opposite wall in a thinly veiled threat, but never takes his steely gaze off of Tony’s face.   

 

Tony blinks at him.  “Come on Coulson.  You really think I’d…” he stops at the dark expression that passes over Coulson’s face.  Right.  Tony supposes he deserves that, considering everything that’s happened in the last few weeks.  He swallows.  “Right.  So you just go sit over there, and I’ll just…” he nods his head toward Barton’s door.

 

Coulson steps aside and gestures with his right arm for Tony to go in.  “Be careful, Mr. Stark,” he warns gravely.

 

There are a whole lot of implications wrapped up in those four words.  He has no idea if Coulson means to handle Barton with kid gloves; or to be careful that he doesn’t do anything to hurt Barton; or if he means be careful in general, because Widow’s caution to him that he’s the one that needs to watch his back has never been too far from his mind.  In the past, he’s never, personally, found Coulson to be too intimidating, but there’s a fierceness to his demeanor here in Wakanda that gives Tony pause; he has no doubt that ‘this’ Coulson would kill him in a heartbeat if Tony makes the slightest wrong move. 

 

He takes a deep breath and brushes past Coulson into Barton’s room.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Clint comes awake abruptly, yanking his head up and blinking hard when he sees someone walking toward his bed.  There’s not much light coming in the room so it’s dark, but he knows instinctively that it’s neither a nurse nor Phil.  Clint’s heartrate spikes.

 

“Easy, Katniss,” he hears Tony Stark say as he steps up to the bed and turns on the bedside lamp.  “Don’t want your ticker to explode.”

 

The fact that it’s Tony in his room with him doesn’t do anything to calm him though, and he knows the heart monitor is silently registering an increase in rate.   He sees Tony shift his eyes toward the machine and then back at Clint.

 

“Seriously, Clint.  I come in peace,” he says, both hands raised in a placating gesture.  “And even if I didn’t, your watchdog is right outside.  You can relax.” 

 

Clint flicks his eyes toward the window into the hall then back at Stark.  He drops his head back down on the pillow, letting out a loud breath.  “Yeah?  What _are_ you doing here, Stark?”

 

Tony visibly winces and Clint can only assume that he’s reacting to his still-wrecked voice. 

 

“I heard you were slacking off.  Looking for sympathy.  Thought I’d come kick your ass,” Tony quips, glibness apparently still his go-to defense mechanism.

 

Clint snorts, closing his eyes.  “Fuck off, Stark,” he says, not quite ready to play nice with Tony yet.

 

There’s a moment of silence and Clint knows that Tony is staring at his battered face, his bruised neck and arms, his bandaged hand; it makes his skin crawl and he resolutely does not open his eyes.

 

“Seriously… you, uh, you okay?” Stark finally asks.

 

Clint opens his eyes and pins Tony with a hard gaze.  “I’m fine,” he answers firmly. 

 

Tony takes the last step up to the side of his bed.  “Yeah, why do I think you’d say that no matter what the truth was?”

 

“I really don’t know why you think half the shit you think, Stark, so...” Clint lets the rest of the sentence hang.

 

Tony stares at him for a few seconds and then seems to shake himself out of his thoughts.  “Yeah, about that.  I don’t… I don’t think I was wrong about the Accords.  But I may have been wrong about my methods… and I… maybe could have gone about things a little… differently.  Or better.  I could have handled things better.”

 

Clint snorts and rolls his eyes.  “No kidding.  You know your problem, Stark?  You’re so fucking arrogant that you don’t ever think you can be anything but right,” he says, but he finds that he’s too tired to put any real heat behind the words.

 

“Well, to be fair, I usually am.”  Tony flashes his Cheshire grin.  

 

Clint’s always had a knack for seeing through Starks bravado.  Despite outward appearances, the two of them have a lot in common, and he understands that so much of Stark's behavior is rooted in deep-seated insecurities.  “You’re such a prick,” he huffs lightly, closing his eyes again. 

 

“Yeah, I really am,” Tony concedes glibly.  “But I’m man enough to apologize when the situation warrants it,” he pauses, and Clint would swear he can _feel_ Stark’s eyes sweep over his injuries again.  “So, ya know… I’m… sorry.”

 

Clint opens his eyes and looks at Tony critically.  “What exactly are you apologizing for?” he asks, his voice a hoarse whisper.

 

Tony blinks at him in mild surprise.  “For what happened on the Raft.”

 

“You weren’t there,” Clint tries to answer calmly, but he hears his voice is tight and tense.  “You didn’t have anything to do with that.”

 

“Barton…”

 

“Listen, Stark,” Clint snaps, losing patience.  “If you want to apologize for being an egotistical son of a bitch and assuming you’re always right, feel free, and I’ll accept that apology any day of the week.  But if you’re here for anything else, you can fuck right off with that.”  Clint winces at the raw pain in his throat after that little monologue.

 

They stare at each other challengingly for a moment and Clint dares him with his eyes to look at him with pity.  Tony breaks first.  “Alright, look… I’m sorry that my being an egotistical son of a bitch ended up with you… where you are,” Tony says with a ‘happy now?’ gesture, and Clint huffs and rolls his eyes.  But when Tony speaks again, his tone has changed and he sounds serious and sincere.  “If I could go back, Clint, I swear, I’d do things differently.  I never wanted anything like this to happen.” 

 

Clint rolls his eyes - again.  “No shit, Stark.  I think you’re an asshole, but even I don’t think this would be your end game.” 

 

“Oh,” Tony says, slightly startled.  “So…” he raises his eyebrows.  “We’re good?”

 

Clint tries to shift a little in the bed, grunting at the sharp pain the movement creates.  He ignores the flash of concern he sees on Stark’s face and pushes through the pain, trying to find a slightly less uncomfortable position.   “Oh, we are _miles_ away from good, Stark,” Clint tells him, though it's clear that they're not.  Clint puffs a little distractedly while he continues to shift around.   

 

It’s possible that maybe they’ve taken the first steps on the long road to good, but Stark doesn’t need to know that just yet.  

 

Stark attentively watches him resettle himself for a moment, and then picks up Clint’s tablet from the bedside table and starts tapping away at it. 

 

“What…?” Clint starts, but Tony quickly holds up a finger to silence him, never looking away from the tablet.

 

Whatever.  Clint doesn’t say anything, just rests back against his pillow and waits.  Along with everyone else, he’d never really been able to follow half of what Stark was doing until he’d materialize out of his lab with some new gizmo or other and present them with his finished product.  He’s mildly curious about what Stark’s doing, but he’s really too tired to bother asking.  He’s still not getting good REM sleep. 

 

Tony stops abruptly at one point and points at the untouched food tray next to Clint.  “You gonna eat that?” he asks, indicating a small cup on the tray.

 

Tapioca.  Why does every country in the world seem to have tapioca?  Clint feels his stomach clench tightly and he fights a grimace, waving his hand in an ‘it’s yours’ gesture.

 

Tony reaches over and snatches it off the tray, grabbing a spoon too and shoving a huge spoonful into his mouth before going back to whatever it is he is doing on Clint’s tablet.

 

Clint sighs and wonders how long Tony’s going to be here.  Then idly wonders if he’ll eat any more of Clint’s food.  If he does, maybe Phil will think Clint ate it and get off his back. 

 

Probably not. 

 

A minute later, Stark grins widely, then flips the tablet around so the screen faces Clint.  “Well, you know what they say… a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” he says, shoving it into Clint’s hand.

 

“What…?” Clint asks, furrowing his brow in confusion.

 

“Major League Baseball – well, the Cubs, more precisely.  You can get the games live whenever they’re playing...” Tony pauses and Clint stares at the device in his hand.  “…which, given the fact that you’re in Wakanda, will probably be at weird times.”  He snatches the tablet back from Clint.

 

“Hey…” Clint says with a tinge of disappointment, because, hello?  That actually looked like the Cubs! 

 

“Gimme a second, Legolas,” Tony mumbles, tapping away again, “and then you can watch on tape-delay anytime you want.”  He smiles and shoves the tablet back into Clint’s good hand.  “Voila!  Yesterday’s Cubs-Dodgers game.  Spoiler alert, the Cubs killed them.” 

 

“Seriously?” Clint’s eyes scan the action on the screen to confirm what Tony said – and holy shit, it looks like he can see Rizzo up to bat.

 

“Yep.  All Cubs, all the time.  Though, really, Barton? The Cubs?”

 

“Better than the Mets,” he mutters absently, focused on the game.  A minute later he smiles – genuinely – for the first time since he woke up in Wakanda, when Rizzo hits a sharp single into right field.  “This is awesome, Stark.  Thanks,” he says, tearing his eyes from the screen, surprised to see that Tony is already at the door.  “Hey, Stark,” Clint calls out to him hoarsely as he starts to open it.

 

Tony stops and turns back to him, his face questioning; he lifts his chin in acknowledgement.

 

“Maybe you should put that flip phone in your pocket to use,” Clint says, and sees something flicker across Tony’s face.

 

Tony hesitates but doesn’t say anything, but Clint sees him finger the bulky outline of the phone on his leg for a second before pulling open the door.

 

“Take care of yourself,” Clint rasps after him, and he can see Stark pause in surprise at that.  “And tell Rhodey to get off his ass,” he adds before dropping his attention back to the ballgame going on in his hand.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! : )
> 
> Next up: Wanda


	7. Wanda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to my fantastic beta, KippyVee! And also to Lexx_Ishi for a couple rounds of feedback on this chapter - much appreciated!

 

 

**Wanda**

 

When they get outside the Avengers compound and into the truck, Clint turns to her.  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

 

Wanda squirms a little and flashes her eyes nervously.  She just shoved her friend down several floors of the building and ran from someplace that she’s been safe.   “I think so,” she tells him, but her uncertainty is obvious.

 

Clint turns his body so he’s facing her even more.  “I think you need to be really sure, sweetheart,” he says gently.  “If you’re not, you should stay.” 

 

“How do you know if you are sure?” she asks, frustrated.

 

“You trust your gut, Wanda.  It’s normal to have doubts or feel scared.  But it’s what’s deep down, telling you to stay or to go, that’s what you rely on,” he tells her. 

 

“What is your gut telling you?”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” he answers, shaking his head.  “You can’t do this because Steve wants you to or because Vision and Tony don’t.  You have to do it because you believe it’s the right thing to do.  If you do, then you can know that no matter what happens, you’ll be able to live with it.  Otherwise you’ll drive yourself crazy with regrets.  Trust me, I know.”

 

They sit in silence while Clint lets her think about that for a few minutes.

 

He’s been saying this, though not so directly, for the last two years – since Sokovia - teaching her to trust her instincts, to believe in herself.  But this is the first time it’s truly been up to her.  Before, there had been missions - the Avengers would assemble and they would all go, no discussion, no one asked if she wanted to.  But now… the Avengers are scattered and it’s unnerving to think that she has to make this decision on her own. 

 

She looks to Clint – looking for guidance - but he’s turned his head and is staring out the front of the truck, giving her the space to make up her own mind.  Letting her make her own choice.  And there - _right then_ \- she just knows.  Her gut is telling her that she's right not to sign the Accords, and she knows she can trust it - trust herself - because Clint just proved it to her by trusting her himself. 

 

She does not want to live her life as a tool for other people to use.  That’s what she was – what Hydra made her.  If she signs the Accords, she’ll just be Ross’ tool instead of Hydra’s.  Clint believes in her, and apparently Steve believes in her, too; maybe it's time to believe in herself.  And if she’s not going to sign the Accords, and Steve needs her help, then she’s leaving with Clint – there’s no question about that. 

 

“Let’s go,” she says suddenly, turning in her seat, pulling the seatbelt across and sliding the buckle in.

 

Clint turns a surprised expression her way.  “You sure?”

 

“Positive,” she says with conviction.

 

Clint flashes a proud smile at her.  “Alright, then, let’s go,” he says as he shifts in his seat and starts the engine.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

When they put the collar on, it’s like her brain shorts out.  There’s no other way to describe it; suddenly, all of the noise and humming vibration that’s usually there is just… gone.  It takes her voice, too, leaving her trapped in her own mind with nothing but disturbing silence.  She wonders if this is what it’s like for normal people; how their brains feel.  She tries to remember before she and Pietro went to the Hydra scientists – when she was ‘normal’ - and she thinks that, yes, maybe this empty silence is familiar.  But the memories from before the scientists are dim and worn, and she’s not sure.

 

She feels terrifyingly vulnerable.  Without her powers, she’s just a girl with nothing to defend herself.  She couldn’t even manage a small (no doubt ineffectual) defense if she needed to, the way they have her bound by the straitjacket.  The only thing keeping her from completely breaking down in fear and despair that first day is Clint, who spends the entire time sitting at the corner of his cell nearest hers and talking to her; soothing her with his words and telling her that everything will be okay. 

 

On the morning of the second day, one of the guards comes in; he’s got greasy black hair and small dark eyes.  He looks like a weasel and he looks at her in a way that sends a shiver of cold terror down her spine.  Wanda knows that look.  She is shaking when he finally leaves.

 

“Wanda?” Clint’s voice cuts through the curtain of fear in her head.  “Wanda?  You’re okay.  You’re gonna be okay, sweetheart.  I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.  You hear me?  I won’t let them hurt you,” he says low and fierce.

 

If she could, she’d ask how he thinks he’s going to do that – how he thinks he can protect her and keep her safe - because he is locked in his cell and she is locked in hers, and the guards can open her door and do whatever they want with her.  Even so, his words somehow soothe her and she finds herself calming.  She trusts him.

 

An hour later, a different guard makes his rounds through the cellblock and as soon as he steps through the door into their containment area, Clint is up and at the front of his cell, yelling filthy, offensive, vile things at him.  The guard glares at him, and Scott and Sam stare with wild confusion.  She understands immediately what he is doing.  

 

When the guard leaves, Sam yells over to Clint, asks him what the hell he was doing.  Tells him not to do it again.  Clint completely ignores him and stands over in the corner nearest her cell.  “You okay, Wanda?” he asks quietly.  “Yeah… you’re okay.  And you’re going to be, so don’t sit over there and worry, alright?”

 

The next guard to come in gets the same treatment from Clint.  And the next and the next and every time.  Clint seems to save the most offensive things he can think of for when the weasel-looking guard makes his next round through their area.  His eyes burn with fury at the things Clint yells at him, and he barely gives Wanda a glance. 

 

As the days go on, sometimes she lays on her back and kicks furiously at the wall that her cell shares with Clint’s, telling him the only way she can to _stop_ … stop antagonizing the guards, stop doing this for her.  Silent tears track down her face when she thinks about what will come of this game he’s playing on her behalf.

 

Sam’s getting mad and Scott’s afraid; Clint doesn’t care.  Wanda doesn’t need her powers to understand that. 

 

AAAAAAAA

 

It’s been days since they’ve been locked up here, but she doesn’t know how many – it’s hard to keep track with no windows.  Clint continues to verbally attack the guards whenever they show up, but Sam has mostly stopped yelling at him to knock it off, since Clint continued to ignore him.  He’s apparently realized that he can say the same thing over and over again but he’s not likely to get any different results. 

 

A chasm has grown between Clint and Sam.

 

Clint talks to her and Scott Lang, though.  Giving them reassurance, telling them to stay strong.  He gets Scott to talk about his daughter, and Clint tells him funny stories about Thor; he always gets Scott to laugh.  He spends hours sitting against the wall by the corner next to her cell, and she moves to sit so that if there was no wall there, she would be able to feel the press of his body up against hers.  He speaks quietly, so that only she can hear, and tells her about growing up in a circus.  Wanda had never known how much alike she and Clint really are – orphaned, with no one but a brother to rely on.  His brother’s dead, too.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Even though she knows it’s foolish, she thinks she falls in love with him all over again.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

In between visits from the guards, when he’s not murmuring to her reassuringly, she can hear Clint huffing and puffing in his cell, doing push-ups and crunches, and any other thing he can think of to stay in shape – to stay strong.  Wanda isn’t strong; locked inside her head like this she’s weak.  And she’s furious.  

 

The outer door opens and she hears Clint scramble to stand up from where he was doing sit-ups.  Instead of the usual two guards, five guards walk in, and surprisingly, as they stalk up to Clint’s cell, he doesn’t yell at them.  Instead, she hears him say, low and steady, “Everything’s going to be okay, Wanda.  You hear me?”

 

She hears him, but this time she doesn’t believe him.  Because then he’s gone.  Without a word of protest, without any shouting or insults or objection, he just… walks away with them.  Leaving her alone with the terrifying silence in her head and a burning fury deep in her chest.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

When Steve unbuckles her restraint, easing her out of it, her hands immediately scrabble at the collar around her neck. 

 

“Easy, Wanda,” Steve says, gently removing her frantic grip as he eyes the collar warily.  She knows he doesn’t know what it is or how it works or what it could do, and so he hesitates.  She shakes her head at him, breaking his hold to pull at the collar again.  He darts a quick look behind him at the other cells and she sees the moment when expediency outweighs caution in his mind, and he simply reaches out and snaps it in half, freeing her from her eight-day prison.  Once it’s gone, so is Steve, off to release the others.

 

With the collar removed from her neck, everything roars back like a dam has been breached – all the noise, the buzzing, the thoughts and emotions - they all surge violently into her head, confusing her.  Where there had been silence for days, now there is blaring chaos, overwhelming her and causing her to drop to her hands and knees, panting.   Red flickers dangerously from her hands, directionless, uncontrolled, brighter than she’s ever seen.  Her body shakes and her mind struggles to find a coherent path.  The first clear thought she manages after the confusion starts, is to destroy everything; this place, herself, these men who did what they did to Clint-

 

 _Clint_. 

 

She reaches frantically to control the crimson ropes swirling around the cell, and the fire banks a tiny bit.  She needs to get to Clint. 

 

Wanda drops her head and takes a deep breath, closing her eyes and concentrating with every bit of strength she has to regain control over her powers.  After what feels like an eternity she is able to draw the energy to herself and contain it enough that she might be able to stop herself from killing them all.  She stands and staggers toward Clint’s cell where Steve is still crouched, trying to help him.  Wanda understands they need to move quickly, so without a word, she reaches out to Clint and, as gently as she can, wraps her red tendrils around him, lifting him so they can leave.  Steve is saying things to her, but she is using all her mental concentration not to hurt Clint even more than he already is, so she ignores Steve and instead, moves Clint out of his cell.  She has never worked so hard to bend her magic to her will, but it has never been so important, either.     

 

It’s not until they are probably hundreds of miles away that she lifts her focus away from Clint long enough to realize that she has lost her chance to destroy the Raft. 

 

AAAAAAAA

 

On the quinjet, Sam asks her if she can help Clint.  She startles at his request and then is overwhelmed at the bitter frustration she feels at the fact that she cannot.  Clint had spent many hours working with her on refining her abilities; teaching her discipline and focus to help her try to learn to better control her powers.  But the precision required for what Clint needs right now is impossible – Hydra designed her powers to destroy, not restore.  There’s nothing she wants more than to help Clint – to undo this terrible thing - but she’s useless and impotent.  As she stares at her brutalized friend lying on the gurney, the seeds of anger that had been planted in the Raft start to grow in her, pushing through the thick wall of shock and despair.  By the time they get to Wakanda, it has developed into complete and utter rage.     

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Each of them is given quarters in a building in the Palace compound.  She doesn’t know what anyone else’s look like, but hers is a small apartment with a bedroom, a compact but comfortable living area, plus a small kitchen and bathroom.  It’s fine.  She spent the last eight days locked in a cell, days before that confined to the Avengers compound, and much of her early life sealed in a laboratory; as long as there’s no lock on the outside keeping her in, she doesn’t care where she stays. 

 

For the first few days, she stays there.  She’s too angry to go out; too afraid that in her rage, her power might get away from her, because she hasn’t been able to get it fully under control since Steve released her.  She doesn’t know if that collar did something permanent to her or if she’s just dealing with pent-up energy that is still seeking an outlet.  Even without the added stress of eight days with no release, she sometimes has trouble containing her power when she’s scared or angry.  It happened in Sokovia and again in Lagos – both of which more or less landed them where they are now.  The last thing Wanda wants to do is cause more trouble.  But she’s been struggling to contain everything for days and it’s beginning to scare her. 

 

In the past, it’d been Pietro, and then Clint, who had been there to help her when she felt like this – angry and verging on out of control; terrified of her power.  Pietro had always just joked with her and gotten her to laugh, coaxing her out of whatever maelstrom she was in, and somehow the flickers of red irritation would subside. 

 

When she had first gone to the Avengers compound, it had been petrifying.  She had never thought about her powers as something to be controlled – the Hydra scientists had wanted her to wreak as much havoc as she could – encouraging her to let it loose and do as much damage as possible.  And that was easy.  But suddenly, it was more important that she _control_ her power, and _that_ was so much more difficult.  For the first time, she understood what it really meant and the destruction she could bring.  And for the first time, she didn’t want it. 

 

Clint was there, though, to help her through it.  Like Pietro, he had never seemed to be afraid of her – of her powers.  Clint always gave her a gentle smile and told her it was okay to be afraid, but if she believed in herself and in what she was doing, the fear – while it might not ever go away entirely - would recede from the forefront.

 

“We’re all a little terrified, you know?” Clint had told her once as they sat on a rise above the compound, and she shrank back self-consciously.  “Not of _you_ ,” he quickly clarified.  “Of _ourselves_.” 

 

Wanda gave him a perplexed look, because the Avengers were all so… good.  She couldn’t understand why they would have the same kind of fears that she had. 

 

“Bruce has no idea what kind of destruction he’ll bring when he turns into Hulk,” he explained.  “Steve’s afraid he’ll be the last one standing.  Tony, despite his Iron Man suit, that he won’t be good enough to save everyone.”  He paused, then smiled a little and added, “I guess maybe Nat’s not afraid of anything, but she’s an anomaly.”

 

“What about you?” she had asked him.

 

Clint had looked at her for a second and then blinked and turned away, looking out at the horizon.  “I can kill a dozen people with a bow and arrow in 6 seconds from 500 yards and then turn around and walk away,” he told her.  “That’s more than a little terrifying,” he said quietly, still not looking at her.    

 

His discomfort was obvious.  “If it bothers you, why do you do it?”

 

Clint took a deep breath and turned back to her.  “We’re not Avengers because of what we have that other people don’t.  It’s what we do with it.  We have gifts and it’s our job to use them to make things right,” he told her.  And then he said, “Wanda, you can do that, too, you know?” 

 

She thought about that, and about his words to her in Sokovia when he had challenged her to get off her ass…

 

                     " _Okay, look, the city is flying.  We’re fighting an army of robots and I have a bow and arrow.  None of this makes sense._

_But I’m goin’ back out there ‘cause it's my job.  Okay and I can’t do my job and babysit.  It doesn’t matter what you did,_

_or what you were… if you step out that door, you are an Avenger.”_

 

She had followed him out that day, and become an Avenger.  And in the days since, she had tried to live up to what they stood for.  But in truth, she had never truly felt like an Avenger – her fear and insecurity always holding her back. 

 

And she’s afraid now, too; afraid that if she goes out, she might hurt someone or destroy something.  At first, her fear keeps her in her Wakandan apartment, trying to settle her powers and get her feet back under her.  She mostly just watches out the window, trying to understand this strange place that they’ve ended up.  From her vantage point she can see the others as they arrive or leave the building.  She sees Steve come and go a few times a day – Sam, too.  She sees Scott Lang leave early in the morning and return late in the evening.  She sees Widow returning late at night on the second day, then doesn’t see her for two more days.  

 

After a few days, though, without Clint, without Vision, she’s feeling unmoored and alone.  She wants the solace of company but she thinks she’s still too angry to talk to the others.  So instead, when she finally leaves the building, she follows them from a distance, watches them, keeps track of where they are and what they’re doing.  It makes her feel safer, somehow, to be near them.

 

She begins to understand the pattern of their comings and goings.  Sam is going to the hospital in the morning and then again in the afternoon.  So is Black Widow, now that she has returned from wherever she went.  Scott is apparently just walking around, going nowhere, doing nothing.  It’s very strange and she doesn’t know what to make of it.  She’s afraid maybe he is a little bit broken. 

 

She follows Steve, seeing that even here in Wakanda, he has much to do.  She follows him to the Palace itself, back out and into another building that she does not know the purpose of; she sees him hesitate on the steps to the hospital then go in, then come out just a short time later.  He goes to see Sam and Natasha at their apartments; he walks a little bit with Scott.  Wanda watches from down the hall as he knocks on her own door every day, but she’s not in there, so he goes away.

 

She ventures into the hospital.  Despite what Widow had said to her, she has no intention of actually going to talk to Clint, but she feels drawn to him nonetheless.  She stands in the hall, away from Clint’s room, but there’s a window that allows her to see in.  She’s not surprised that Phil Coulson is there with him.

 

Even though it’s been a few days, Clint still looks very bad.  The bruises on his face are vivid – so dark purple they almost look black.  Those on his neck are not so dark, but even from where she stands, she can see that it hurts him to swallow or talk when Coulson asks him a question.  One of his hands is wrapped up in layers and layers of bandages; on the other arm, she can see more bruises.  She doesn’t want to, but she can’t stop herself from thinking about the other injuries – the ones she cannot see. 

 

Red licks at her fingertips and she turns and quickly leaves.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

She finds herself drawn back to Clint’s hospital room again and again - the pull of her renewed feelings for him too strong to resist - but she only ever stands outside and watches through the window.  At the moment, Clint is asleep but Phil Coulson is there as he has been every time she’s looked.  He’s sitting in a chair next to his bed, fingers resting lightly on Clint’s unbandaged hand while he reads from a tablet in his own lap.  

 

Seeing their intimate connection reminds her of a night at the Avengers compound, a couple of months after Sokovia.  She’d been prowling around then, too, head still buzzing with too much grief and pent-up energy to sleep, when she thought maybe she heard Clint’s soft laugh coming from the kitchen and gravitated toward it.

 

In the weeks following Sokovia, Clint had remained close: guiding, teaching, supporting, pushing, making her laugh.  Without Pietro, she needed someone to ground her and he didn’t seem to mind that she followed him around like a lost puppy, tagging along with him to the range where she watched him loose arrow after arrow, amazed at what he could do with such a simple tool.  He was kind to her and patient, and she was in awe of him, so it wasn’t a huge surprise to wake up one day and realize that she’d fallen head over heels in love with him.       

 

That one night, when she heard the low voices coming from the kitchen, she crept quietly down the hall, her heart beating faster as she anticipated seeing Clint.  He’d been gone on a mission for a few days and she’d pined desperately, ridiculously.  But when she peeked into the bright room, she saw Clint standing close – very close - to another man.  No one she’d ever seen before.  Her gut wrenched as she immediately recognized the easy intimacy between them for what it was.

 

“I can tell the difference,” the man had murmured, his hand under Clint’s t-shirt, his fingers stroking lightly over a spot on Clint’s abdomen.  Guilt rippled through her; Wanda knew exactly what that spot was - she and Pietro has helped put it there.

 

She saw Clint’s hand move to cover the other man’s.  “I’m okay, Phil,” he had said, with an indulgent smile and a sweet, lingering kiss to the other man’s neck.

 

“I know,” the other had replied tenderly, their closeness painfully clear to Wanda.

 

She left immediately, uncomfortable with witnessing a moment that was obviously private and personal, and embarrassed at her absurd schoolgirl crush that she now understood would always be unrequited.

 

The man - Phil Coulson (Clint had introduced them the next morning) - stayed for two days.  When others were around, he and Clint kept a professional distance from each other, but now that she knew, Wanda recognized the warmth between them.  A week after Phil Coulson left, Clint told her that in a few months, he would be leaving; retiring from the Avengers.  Not retiring from… the work.  Just, he’d be working – and living - someplace else.  Wanda had been devastated, a flurry of confused emotions overtaking her. 

 

Her turmoil must have been visible, because Clint stepped closer to her.  “Wanda…” he said tentatively, concern in his voice.  

 

“I understand,” she said sharply, embarrassed by her adolescent emotions.  She took a step back from him and saw a flicker of hurt in his eyes.  “I’m not a child.  You do not need to hide your secret from me.  I could see that you are in love with him.”

 

Clint sighed and dropped his head for a few seconds, then raised it back up, his hand rubbing the back of his neck ruefully.  “I know you’re not a child, Wanda.  And I wasn’t hiding anything from you.  We just don’t,” Clint sighed again.  “We just don’t advertise it, you know?  It’s a habit, I guess, that we keep our distance in public.  But everyone – the Avengers – they all know, and I guess I just kind of forgot that you didn’t.  I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

 

A few months later he was gone from the Avengers compound, but, as promised, not from her life.  He called her several times a week and came to see her when he was in New York.  They Snapchatted in erratic bursts.  Slowly, her crush faded, her feelings settling into a comfortable hum, and she felt, in many ways, even closer to him.

 

But love has a funny way of catching you by surprise, and after just a few days on the Raft, and Clint’s constant, soothing talk, Wanda had felt the familiar, bitter warmth of longing. 

 

She’s a little bit lost in her memories when sudden movement makes her focus her attention back on the room.  Clint seems to have come awake abruptly, and she can tell that he’s disoriented – looking around frantically – confused about where he is.  She can feel his distress like a sour knot in her stomach.  Coulson has stood up and is looking with concern between Clint and the machines next to the bed.  She sees Clint try to sit up and then squeeze his eyes shut in obvious pain and drop back down onto the bed, curling into himself.

 

“Clint…” she hears Phil Coulson say; it’s not quite a question and not quite a demand, but somewhere in between.  But whatever it is, it’s enough that Clint responds, reaching out blindly to clutch at the other man’s hand.

 

“I’m okay,” he gasps, but the harsh and strained words belie his credibility.

 

“I know,” Phil answers, regardless, and Wanda doesn’t know how he can be so calm.  Her own heart is pounding, her hands are shaking, and the rage she feels coiling inside is pushing to get out.  A nurse looks at her nervously as red sparks alight from her hands.  She turns and rushes down the hall, afraid of what will happen if she doesn’t leave. 

 

AAAAAAAA

 

She is sitting outside a small café absently stirring a cup of tea, trying not to think about how in that moment that Clint startled in his bed, still half entrapped in his nightmare, she could _feel_ flashes of his frenzied panic and dread.  The sick feeling in her stomach still hasn’t gone away and the tea isn’t helping.  It’s the worst part of her powers, she thinks, that when other people’s emotions are very intense, her mind can sometimes pick up on it.  

 

“Wanda.”

 

She looks up and sighs, because of course it’s Steve and she can guess what he wants. 

 

“Do you mind if I sit down?” he asks politely and she waves her assent – albeit reluctantly - at the chair across from her.

 

Even though she’s been following the others for a few of days, she’s been actively avoiding contact with them, afraid they’ll want to talk about what happened.  She doesn’t want anyone to try to talk her out of her anger.  Even so, though she doesn’t want to admit it, she’s glad to have the company after so many days alone (her conversation with Black Widow notwithstanding).

 

“It’s good to see you,” he says with a genuine smile.  “How’re you doing?”

 

“I am fine,” she says curtly, reluctant to admit any weaknesses.

 

“I’m glad to hear that,” he says, then takes a sip of his coffee.  “I’ve been looking for you.”

 

“Here I am,” she says, spreading her arms out to the side a little.  “What do you want?”

 

Steve shrugs.  “Nothing in particular.  I just wanted to see how you’re doing.” 

 

She eyes him suspiciously; she knows there’s more to his sudden appearance.

 

“We haven’t really seen you,” he continues.  “We were starting to worry,” the sincerity in his voice is palpable.

 

“Well, you can stop.  As you can see, I am fine.”

 

“Wanda…”

 

“If you are going to tell me I should go see Clint, Black Widow has already come with that message,” she cuts him off impatiently, hoping he will go away now. 

 

“That’s not why I’m here.  Clint knows you’ll go see him when you’re ready.  He’s fine with that.”

 

That was not the response she expected and she turns her head for a moment so Steve can’t see her surprise behind the curtain of her hair.

 

“Look, I understand how you feel,” he tells her, and the sympathy she hears in his voice is grating.

 

She turns back and squints at him.  “I don’t think you do,” her voice is flat.

 

He cocks his head and watches her with discernment for a few seconds.  “You feel like it’s your fault.  That if you’d been ‘better’ somehow, this wouldn’t have happened.  That you could have prevented what happened to Clint if you’d just… done something differently.”

 

Even though he’s right, she stares at him blank-faced, acknowledging nothing.

 

“You think I don’t feel exactly the same way?” he asks with sadness in his voice.

 

Wanda looks into his eyes and sees the deep sorrow there, then huffs and looks away; she doesn’t want to let him in and is unwilling to share her blame with him.  “I do not want to talk about it,” she tells him, her words clipped and angry.

 

“Look, Wanda… I know what you’re going through is very difficult, but -”

 

“I told you, I am fine,” she lashes out, maybe overly loud, and a few people in the café turn and look at them.

  

Steve just looks at her with a slightly dubious expression.   

 

“I am,” she repeats, a little lower.  “And I don’t need you checking up on me.  I am fine by myself.”

 

Steve smiles and shakes his head.  “Sorry, Wanda, that’s not how it works.  You’re part of the team and we’re all in this together.  Besides,” he shrugs, “I promised Clint I would.”

 

Wanda rolls her eyes, hoping she’s not giving her real feelings away.  In fact, it’s a relief to hear him say he still thinks of her as part of the team.  And her heart does a little tumble to know that Clint is thinking of her. 

 

“Okay, look,” he says, congenial as ever, ignoring her eye-roll.  “Phil Coulson’s been able to arrange it for Scott Lang to return home since he wasn’t really supposed to sign on to the Accords.  He’s leaving tomorrow, so I want us all to get together tonight before he leaves.  I’m going to… try to cook something,” he smiles self-deprecatingly.  “I’d like you to be there.”

 

Wanda hesitates.  “Do I have to?”

 

“I’d really like you to,” he says gently, again with a smile.

 

“Is it an order?” she asks, crossing her arms.

 

Steve pauses.  “If it needs to be.  I’m hoping it doesn’t need to be.”

 

Wanda turns her face away again.

 

Steve stands up.  “I know that what’s happened to Clint is difficult for you.  It’s difficult for all of us.   I know he’s helped you deal with things in the past, and I guess he’s not able to be that person for you right now, but _we’re_ all here for you, Wanda.  You’re one of us and we’re not going to abandon you.”  Steve takes a last drink of his coffee and sets the cup on the table.  “I’ll see you tonight at 6:00.  I think you know where I’m staying,” he says with a wink before turning to go.

 

She feels her face pink up at the realization that he’d known she was following him.  She watches him disappear into the crowd and then slumps in her chair, relieved that he’s gone, but more relieved that despite her best efforts to push him away, he had refused to let her go. 

 

AAAAAAAA

 

She’s upset when she leaves Steve’s apartment – distressed about what Sam said about memories.  As soon as he told them about how memories wear out, she thought of her parents.  For as long as she could remember, her memories of her parents and her early childhood were the ones that she had cherished most.  Yet, as time went on, she found that they became thin and worn and now it’s even difficult to call up a clear picture of her mother’s face.  The worst part is that she realizes that it had happened so slowly that she hadn’t even noticed. 

 

But now that she sees it for what it is, she’s devastated at the idea of it happening to her memories of Pietro, too.  She can’t bear the idea that some day when she thinks about her brother, he’ll be just another blurry and indistinct face that her mind struggles to conjure up. 

 

It feels like losing him all over again.

 

She barely makes it back to her own quarters before her tears start flowing and she curls on the floor, letting them come, crying for her lost brother - for everything they had and everything they should have had, together, as Avengers. 

 

She lays on the floor and sobs, crying for Pietro and for Clint and for herself.  And as she sobs, all of the rage and anger she’s been holding so tightly inside begins to work its way out.  A red storm swirls in the room, knocking things over and off the wall.

 

_“Who are you angry at, Wanda?”_

_“You know who.”_

_“I think I do, but do you?”_

Sam thought she didn’t understand who she was mad at, but she did.  Her most ferocious anger she has saved for herself.  For being weak and defenseless and not being able to protect herself.  For having to rely on someone else – Clint – to protect and save her.  For the part of her that doesn't want to admit that she is relieved that Clint did what he did. 

 

She’s furious with herself for going quietly at the airport, instead of continuing to fight.  She’s angry with herself that she could not control her powers enough to help when Sam asked her on the quinjet.  What Sam had said about Clint and PTSD at dinner tonight had enraged her – because her failings may mean a lifetime of torment for Clint.

 

She’s incensed that though she _could_ do something to help him now, she must not.  It would be a simple thing for her to slip into his mind and take the memories of what they did to him, and all of this could be over.  But she cannot because Clint had told her about Loki.  About how he had stripped Clint of who he was and left him a broken shell after the Battle of New York.  How he remembered almost nothing of the damage he had caused, and worse, the lives he had taken.  How his mind had felt like an echoing void and how that had felt somehow so much worse than remembering the destruction he caused and the faces of the people he had killed.  And most importantly, how she must always be very, very careful about unleashing those powers.

 

She is irately frustrated that though Clint had believed in her - had called her an Avenger - at the time when she needed to be that person the most, she had been powerless and impotent to do anything but sit by as he was brutalized for her sake.  

 

And she’s enraged at the fear that still grips her and holds her hostage.  Clint had told her that it didn’t matter what she had done in the past, that if she stepped out and fought beside them, she was an Avenger.  But she knows that her insecurity had continued to hold her back.  And now, she doesn’t know what to do, still feeling paralyzed by her uncertainty. 

 

Clint had stepped out into a flying city with a bow and arrow, and she cowered until he shamed her into following.  Clint had redirected the guards’ attention from her onto himself knowing the fate he would suffer, and she hides in her rooms and sneaks around so no one will see her.

 

He did what he did because he’s an Avenger.  He may have doubts, he may have fears, but when he needs to, he puts them aside and does what needs doing.  As mad as it makes her, she knows that he will have no regrets about what he did on the Raft.  He knew what he was doing, knew she would not condone it, but he went with his gut, because that’s what Avengers do and -

 

\- and what is _her_ gut telling her?  That thought stops all others, and she blinks at the realization that her path forward is as simple as listening to her gut - just like Clint told her to do.

 

Suddenly it’s blindingly obvious.  Wanda sits up - finding it surprisingly easy to pull the crimson coils to herself - and wipes the tears from her face, understanding with crystal clarity what she needs to do.  If she wants to be rid of her fears and her anger - if she wants to be an Avenger - then she needs to _act_ like one. 

 

It’s time for her to grow up.

 

It’s time for her to get off her ass.

 

It’s time for her to make amends.

 

Without hesitation, Wanda stands up and walks out the door.    

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit: I caught S1E1 of Agents of SHIELD recently, and in it, Phil was talking to Skye about what makes them 'heroes'. It was spot-on what I had already drafted Clint saying to Wanda about what makes them Avengers, but I liked how Phil put it in AoS, so I co-opted it and added it to what I already drafted. I can totally imagine Phil having said it to Clint in the past and now Clint is passing it along.
> 
> I'm always glad to hear your thoughts - and thanks for reading! : )
> 
> Next up: Phil


	8. Phil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to KippyVee for squeezing in review of this monster chapter as quickly as she did. She worked it over with her beta skills, and then I added 1K, so if there are glaring errors, you can be sure it's text I added later.
> 
> And thanks again to Lexx_Ishi for review and feedback!

 

**Phil:**

 

Phil leans on the doorjamb watching Clint absently shove things into his duffle while talking on the phone.  He can read the tension in Clint’s body so he takes care to keep his own body language open and his face neutral. 

 

“Yeah, I’ll go get her and we’ll be there as soon as we can,” Phil hears him say.  Clint pauses then, listening for a moment.  He’s not once looked Phil’s direction, but it’s clear Clint knows he’s there.  “Okay, sure, I can do that, just let me know where to find him,” he says, taking two steps over to the tiny bathroom and grabbing a few things from in there.  He stuffs them into his bag, then stands still and there’s another long pause.  “Right, okay, see you soon.”  Clint disconnects the call and tosses the phone onto the bed before grabbing his bow case and setting it on top of the dresser.

 

“So you’re going then,” Phil says, not bothering to make it a question since Clint’s packing and the end of the conversation he just heard speak for themselves.

 

“Yeah,” Clint answers, opening the case to inspect his bow, even though they both know he checked the weapon thoroughly before he put it in the case after he practiced with it the day before. 

 

Phil just nods, but Clint still hasn’t looked his way, so he doesn’t see.

 

“You don’t think I should,” Clint says, running his fingers along the weapon while his eyes simultaneously scan every millimeter, scrutinizing it for flaws he knows aren’t there.  It’s as much ritual and routine as it is an equipment check, Phil knows, born of a life where his bow has been his only constant. 

 

“It’s not your fight,” Phil knows it’s pointless – knows Clint has made up his mind – but he also knows he needs to say it, if only for his own sake.

 

Clint finally turns toward him, eyes sparkling and lips quirking up in the kind of grin that always makes something simmer low in Phil’s belly.  “Murderous super-soldiers, Phil.  Kinda sounds like it is.  Besides,” he shrugs, turning back to his bow case, “she needs me.”

 

“And there’s no one else who can help her?” he asks, trying to keep his words light and casual - nonjudgmental.  Nonetheless, he regrets them the instant they’re out of his mouth.  He knows Clint feels a responsibility for Wanda that means he’d never leave her to deal with a situation like this all alone if he could at all help it.  Knows he’s torn himself up with guilt for not being there with her in Lagos.  Phil just wishes like hell that Clint didn’t always come last on Clint’s own list of priorities. 

 

“Stark and Vision have got her locked up at the compound like some sort of prisoner,” Clint’s voice has hardened as the words come out.  “And everyone else is halfway around the world.  Anyway… she’s my responsibility.”  His fingers hum along the taut string.

 

As much as Phil wants to say ‘no she’s not’, he knows that would only make Clint angry at _him_ , so he swallows the words.  Besides, he knows it’s not an argument he would ever win.

 

“And Natasha?” is what he asks instead, knowing that Clint had been surprised when she’d told him that she was signing the Accords.

 

If Phil wasn’t watching so closely he would have missed the minute tensing of Clint’s shoulder muscles.  Probably no one else except the woman in question would have noticed it either.  “What about her?” Clint says easily, feigning a nonchalance Phil knows he can’t possibly feel; this apparent fracture in the Avengers has all of them a little off-kilter.  Clint gently places his bow back in its slot.

 

But Phil knows it’s not quite that simple.  “How’re you going to feel if it comes down to the two of you on opposite sides here?” 

 

“She’ll understand,” Clint replies without hesitation, snapping his bow case shut.

 

He’s right.  She will.  But… “If it turns into a fight?”

 

Clint scoffs, turning around again and shooting an amused look at Phil.  “It’s not gonna come to that, Phil.  No one is going to let things get that out of hand.”

 

“Are you sure?” he asks, because Phil’s not so sure at all.  Stark and Rogers are both alpha dogs with stubborn streaks a mile wide.  It’s hard to envision either one of them backing down from this.

 

“Positive,” he answers confidently, then steps over to the bed, zips up his bag and grabs his phone to slip into his pocket.

 

“Clint…” Phil starts, in a tone that has Clint stopping and turning back around to face him.  “Just… be careful.”

 

A huge smile breaks on Clint’s face.  “Oh, you know me Phil.  I’m always careful.”

 

Phil gives Clint an unimpressed look – one he reserves for when his partner says something particularly ridiculous.  “No.  You’re not.  Which is why I’m asking you to be this time.”

 

Clint pauses and gives him a slightly quizzical look and Phil knows it’s because it’s uncharacteristic for Phil to let his nagging worries bleed through like this.  But Phil’s had a bad feeling in his gut since the whole situation between Stark and Rogers started.  He can’t see a good outcome no matter how he looks at it and he wishes like hell that Clint wasn’t about to throw himself into the middle of the fray. 

 

“Yeah, alright,” Clint tells Phil, sounding like he’s humoring him.  “But don’t worry.  I’ll be okay.  I’m always okay,” he flicks a cocky smile Phil’s way.

 

“I know,” Phil concedes on a sigh.

 

Clint grabs his bag and bow case and heads toward the door, stopping when he’s standing just next to Phil.  “Sure you don’t want to come?” Clint asks teasingly.  “I mean, it’s murderous super-soldiers, Phil,” he adds, bouncing on the balls of his feel a little.

 

Phil snorts and shakes his head. “I’ve got enough trouble right here, thanks.  I don’t need to go looking for more.”

 

Clint starts to leave, taking a couple steps down the hall, then pauses and turns to Phil again. 

 

Phil raises his eyebrows questioningly. 

 

“I’ll stay… if you ask me to,” Clint tells him, a sudden seriousness infused in his words.

 

Phil jolts in surprise and blinks.  “I wouldn’t do that.”  He’s learned that he has to trust Clint to follow his gut, even when his own is saying something different. 

 

“You could, though,” Clint responds quietly, “and I would,” he adds, giving Phil a startlingly penetrating look that Phil isn’t sure how to interpret.

 

Phil thinks about it for a second – he wants to tell Clint to stay - but after a beat, shakes his head.  “And if something happened to Wanda, you’d feel responsible.  I’ll never ask you not to do something if you think it’s the right thing to do.”

 

Clint blinks at him then a slow, sweet smile creeps across his face.  “I know,” he steps close to Phil again.  “It’s one of the reasons I love you so goddamn much,” he says, planting a lightning fast kiss on Phil’s lips and then bolting down the hall.

 

Phil stares after him, taking a shocking amount of time to register what Clint said.  Because they don’t do that.  They never have.  Not for any particular reason other than the fact that they’re both too emotionally constipated to make declarations like that.  They both know it’s true and know the other knows how they feel.  They just don’t… say it. 

 

Huh. 

 

It says something about how thrown Phil is by the surprising declaration that it takes him a couple of hours to add it to Clint’s equally unusual willingness to change his plan if Phil asked him.  When it all finally slots together in his brain, he starts to get a very bad feeling that maybe Clint’s gut was telling him the same thing that Phil’s is.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

The flight to Wakanda is the longest of Phil’s life.  He’s delayed on the ground, then they have to make an unexpected diversion around potentially hostile airspace, so the 11 hours he rattled off to Captain America on the phone turns out to be more than 14, every minute of it laced with a growing tightness in his chest over the fear of what he’ll find when he arrives.

 

Three hours in, he gets a call from the hospital in Wakanda.  As Clint’s medical-power-of-attorney, they detail his various injuries and Phil is breathless and reeling from that when they further inform him that they needed Phil’s guidance in regard to what to do about Clint’s hand.  The doctors can guarantee that they can save his fingers, but in a way that would, almost certainly, leave him with limited mobility and use.  Or, they can try a more aggressive surgical option that _might_ leave him with the potential to regain normal or close to normal function.  The downside of the latter option is that if they aren’t successful, he would likely lose the two more badly damaged fingers altogether.  The odds aren’t great; they only give the aggressive approach a 50/50 chance of success.

 

They need to know soon, as they are getting close to the point in the surgery where that decision will have to be made.  They tell him he can have 10 or 15 minutes to think about it.

 

He doesn’t need it.  “Go for full function,” he tells them without hesitation.  Phil knows Clint well enough to know that if he were able to make the decision himself he’d tell them to fight like hell for the fingers, because rightly or wrongly, much of Clint’s self-worth is tied up in his abilities with a bow.  Phil knows it’s the right call; he knows Clint will never fault him if it doesn’t work.  He’d forgive Phil if they tried and failed; but he’d never forgive him for not trying in the first place.

 

When he disconnects the call, he hangs his head and lets out a shuddering breath.  He feels sick at what the doctors told him and his stomach roils for the too-many hours left to get to Wakanda.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Phil is still sitting by Clint’s bed – just as he promised he would be – when Clint wakes up the second time.  And the next time and the next time.   Phil doesn’t leave his bedside but Natasha comes and goes and after a day or so, she finally forces Phil away to take a shower and get some real food.  When he gets back, she cryptically tells him that she may be leaving the next day, and be gone for a day or two, but that she’ll be back.  As much as he’d like to press her for details, he’s not her handler anymore and she doesn’t answer to him.

 

“What do I tell Clint?” Phil asks instead.

 

“Tell him I had an errand,” she replies distractedly, pushing the hair off Clint’s forehead with one hand and fingering the small arrow around her neck with the other. 

 

Wearing the necklace is the only sentimental thing Phil’s ever seen her do and it reminds him just how deep the feelings run between the two.  Clint had bought it for her after that year when they tried being together.  Phil had watched from the sidelines for months while they both seemed to be endlessly frustrated by their relationship.  Finally, annoyed and frustrated himself by their unending friction, Phil jokingly suggested to them over lunch one day that maybe they were destined to be platonic life partners.  Both of them looked up in immediate recognition that their problem was solved.  They stopped sleeping together but their emotional connection never waned.  A week later, Clint produced the delicate necklace and gave it to her with a nervous smile on his face, joking that it was a platonic version of a wedding ring.  He said he had found the necklace in a boutique jewelry shop in Greenwich, but Phil always suspected he had it specially made.  Natasha had put it on immediately and as far as Phil could tell, she wore it all the time – unless mission parameters wouldn’t allow it.  It was another two years before Phil and Clint came together, but the bond between Clint and Natasha remained unbreakable, regardless. 

 

“Whatever you’re doing, please be careful,” Phil can’t stop himself from saying, because too many terrifying possibilities are running through his head and the thought of Natasha not coming back – of not being there when Clint’s eyes are seeking her out - is too much to consider on top of everything else.

 

“You know I will,” she tells him, and unlike Clint, Phil knows that she’s not just humoring him, so he gives her an appreciative nod of the head. 

**

Not long after she leaves, Sam Wilson slips through the door.  “Hey, Phil,” he acknowledges, taking a single step inside.  “Uh, the doctor said it might be okay for me to visit…?” he asks tentatively.

 

“Of course, Sam,” Phil replies quietly, gesturing him into the room. 

 

Sam approaches Clint’s bed and they both stand quietly for a moment.  Even though Sam was the first one to treat Clint and is intimately familiar with all of his injuries, he still seems shocked to see them, and Phil watches his eyes drift uneasily from bruise to bruise.  “Thank you… for what you did for him on the jet,” Phil murmurs eventually, keeping his voice low.

 

Sam grunts noncommittally, still staring at Clint. 

 

“The doctors said your quick action immobilizing and icing his hand may mean the difference between him keeping his fingers or losing them.”

 

“ _Shit,_ ” Sam whispers harshly, turning toward Phil.  “Are they that bad?”

 

“Yes,” Phil answers plainly.  “And the rest, too.  They said that if someone who knew how to get fluids and plasma into him hadn’t been there, he might not have survived from the shock and blood loss on the plane ride.”

 

“I’m just glad I could help,” Sam answers softly, staring at Clint’s face where one eye is noticeably flitting back and forth under its lid, but the tissue surrounding the other is too swollen under the purple skin for the tiny movement to be visible.

 

“You did,” Phil reassures him, trying to infuse as much gratitude into his words as possible. 

 

“So, how’s he doing now?” Sam asks, tearing his eyes from Clint again and scanning the monitors next to the bed.

 

“He’s got a low-grade fever.  The doctors aren’t sure what’s causing it, but they’re blasting him with antibiotics.”

 

“Has he woken up yet?” Sam asks him.

 

“Yes.  A number of times.  Never for very long, though a little longer each time.”

 

Sam nods. “You mind if I hang around a little while?”

 

“Of course not,” Phil answers, and walks across the room to pull another chair closer to the bed; both men sit.  “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see another friendly face when he wakes up again.”

 

Sam’s face does something complicated that Phil can’t interpret.  “Something wrong?” Phil asks.

 

“I’m not so sure he’ll see me as a friendly face,” he answers, looking slightly shame-faced.

 

Phil is instantly on guard, but his face is blank and his voice even when he asks, “Why is that?”

 

Sam sighs and rubs a hand down his face.  “Back on the Raft.  I may have said some things to him that… weren’t so friendly.”

 

Phil scrutinizes the man next to him.  He doesn’t know Sam Wilson very well.  He’s read the man’s file, of course, and they’ve worked a few missions together and met a couple of time outside of that.  Beyond that, he knows he’s a good friend of Steve’s and that goes a long way in Phil’s book.  Clint had told him about a memorable night the two spent in each other’s company a year or so ago when they’d raided Stark’s liquor cabinet.  Clint had liked the man. 

 

Phil gives him a half-smile.  “Clint has his own charming way of bringing that out in people.”

 

Sam snorts. 

 

“You shouldn’t take it personally,” Phil adds.

 

“Hard not to when we’re supposed to be on the same team.”

 

Phil considers for a moment, trying to decide what to say to that.  He’s always on uneasy footing about how much to reveal to other people about Clint.  Clint couldn’t care less what anyone thinks of him, but even more, hates the idea of other’s pity, so Phil knows Clint wouldn’t want him to say anything. 

 

He eventually goes with, “Clint has a complicated relationship with the concept of ‘team’.”

 

“Yeah, as in, not a team player?” Sam asks flippantly.

 

“I said it’s complicated.  I didn’t say he isn’t a team player,” Phil snaps harshly, and Sam looks at him in surprise, clearly not having expected Phil’s strong response.  Phil knows he may be overreacting but it eats at him that other people don’t see what he sees and he can’t stand the idea that someone thinks less of his partner than Phil knows he deserves.  “Clint will _always_ put his team first.  And out there he was trying to keep you _all_ safe.  Just because you didn’t realize he was doing it, doesn’t mean he wasn’t.”  Phil just manages to hold on to self-control and not shout at him entirely, but it’s a close thing.

 

“Yeah, okay… sorry, man,” Sam quickly retorts, hands up placatingly.  “I get it.  I mean, Wanda and Natasha had to basically spoon feed it to me, but I get it.  And I appreciate what he was doing,” Sam sighs.  “Honestly, I just feel like shit that he took this all on himself.  It doesn’t sit right with me that he’s lying there looking like that and I’m standing here just fine.”

 

That soothes Phil’s ruffled feathers considerably and he takes a deep breath, exhaling loudly.  “Like I said, don’t take it personally.  Clint came to believe at a very young age that the only person he could really count on was himself.  I’ve spent years trying to convince him otherwise,” Phil says sadly.  “Believe it or not, he’s made progress.” 

 

Sam nods his head slowly and goes back to staring at Clint. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs quietly, a moment later, and Phil isn’t sure which one of them he’s talking to. 

 

“None of this is your fault, Sam,” Phil answers, equally quiet. 

 

Sam is opening his mouth to respond when Clint’s eyes snap open and he gasps a sudden breath, causing him to wince and wrap his left arm protectively over his ribs.  Both men stand quickly and step up to the bed.

 

“Hey,” Phil says soothingly, reaching out to ground Clint with a gentle hand to his shoulder.  “You’re in Wakanda…”

 

“I know,” Clint growls, his face tight with pain.  “You don’t have to keep saying that.” 

 

Phil sees a shadow of something flicker over Sam’s face at Clint’s words.  He gets it; Phil's stomach ties up in knots every time he hears Clint’s damaged voice, too.  

 

Clint opens his eyes and looks at Phil and then quickly shuts them again.  “I’m okay,” he insists, even though his face is still twisted in clear discomfort.

 

“I know,” Phil tells him calmly, knowing that trusting him is one of the few pieces of comfort he can give Clint in this situation.

 

When Clint finally gets his breathing under control his gaze shifts over to Sam.  “Wilson,” he acknowledges warily.

 

“Hey, man.  How you doin’?” Sam ask, tipping his chin up, and Phil is impressed by the man’s steady demeanor.

 

“Been better,” Clint admits, reaching his arm out, grimacing again.

 

“Jesus, man, stay still.  What do you need?” Sam chides, reaching for the cup on the table that Clint was obviously going for.

 

Clint huffs indignantly.  “I’m not an invalid, Wilson,” he answers in his ruined voice, reaching out again just to prove he can.

 

“Uh, yeah you kinda are,” Sam counters, gently pushing Clint’s arm back down onto the bed and bringing the cup and straw to Clint’s mouth.  Clint leans his head forward a little to take a sip, then rests back again, glaring at Sam.

 

A small smile is threatening on Phil’s face at the interaction; it’s kind of nice not to be the target of Clint’s petulance for once.  Clint gets tetchy and annoyed with too much attention focused on him – hates the implication that he needs help rather than being able to be the one to provide it.  It was ingrained in him early that being a burden potentially meant being left behind – by foster homes, by the circus, by Barney.  It's another notion that Phil’s been trying to dispel Clint of for years as well.  “Clint doesn’t really like it when people try to help him,” Phil points out, and Clint glares at him, too.  Phil just smiles and Clint’s expression softens.

 

“I don’t give a damn whether he likes it or not,” Sam huffs.  “The man can use a hand.”

 

“Not an invalid,” Clint repeats, his eyes closed again, but now with his own small smile quirking on his face.

 

“Whatever, man,” Sam says, then his expression shifts and he stands a little taller, clearing his throat.  “Listen, Barton…” he starts, undoubtedly gearing up to apologize.

 

Clint’s eyes open again and he gives Sam a quelling look.  “We’re good, Wilson.” 

 

Sam stares at him for a few seconds.  “You sure?”

 

“No harm, no foul,” Clint croaks, shrugs, and then winces as his shoulders object strenuously.  “ _Fuck,_ ” he gasps, breathing raggedly.  A few seconds later, his face relaxes a little.

 

“You’re a mess, man,” Sam tells him.  “Go back to sleep.”

 

“Yeah… whatever…” Clint murmurs, sounding like he’s halfway there already.  A minute later, he is.

 

“That was strange,” Sam says quietly.  “He was in R.E.M., I saw it.  He shouldn’t have woken up like that.”

 

Phil takes a deep breath.  “Clint’s no stranger to nightmares.  He trained himself to wake up out of them when they start.  He’s done it nearly every time he’s hit R.E.M. since I got here, that I’ve seen.”

 

Sam stares at him wide-eyed.  “That’s not good.  If he doesn’t rest-”

 

“I know,” Phil mutters, cutting Sam off.  “He knows, too.  Doesn’t stop him from doing it, though,” Phil adds, knowing he sounds every bit as annoyed as he feels. 

 

Sam blows out a loud breath, considering the man in the bed for a moment, then turns back to Phil.  “You wanna talk about how _you’re_ doing?” he raises an eyebrow at Phil.

 

Phil snorts humorlessly.  “Not particularly.”

 

“That because you’re not a ‘feelings’ kind of guy or because you’re not doing very well.”

 

Phil peers over at him.  “Both.”

 

“Phil…” Sam starts, but Phil holds up his hands to stop him.

 

“Look, Sam.  I appreciate what you want to do, but we all have our ways of coping and I know what mine are and I know my limits.  If I need assistance, I know where to find it,” he states firmly, brooking no argument and effectively shutting down the conversation.

 

Sam eyes him for a moment.  “Okay.  Well, you know I’m not going anywhere, so I’ll be around if you change your mind.  And if there’s anything I can do for Clint, all you gotta do is say the word.”  

 

“Thank you.  I appreciate that, and I know Clint will, too.  For now, I think just be a friendly face.”

 

“Yeah, I can do that,” Sam smiles.

 

Phil nods his acknowledgment.  “Listen,” he says quietly, picking up his tablet and then putting a hand on Sam’s arm, directing them both toward the door.  “With any luck, he’ll sleep for a little while.  I hope.  I’d like a debrief on what happened on the Raft.”

 

“Phil…” Sam starts, sounding uneasy.

 

Phil is shaking his head already.  “Don’t tell me I don’t want to hear it, Sam.  It doesn’t work that way.  I don’t get to put blinders on any more than Clint does.  It happened; we need to deal with it.  And I’m going to make sure the men who did this pay for it, so to do that, I need you to identify them and I need an official statement.”

 

Sam sags a little; he doesn’t particularly want to detail out the horror of what happened on the Raft for Barton’s partner, but he knows Phil is right.  “Yeah, okay,” he sighs and pushes through the door.  “Let’s do it.”

 

AAAAAAAA

 

“It was bad, Phil,” Clint murmurs at the ceiling when he wakes up a couple of hours later – almost as though he knows Phil had just debriefed Sam about what happened on the Raft.

 

“I know,” Phil answers, because, really, it’s the only answer he can give.   

 

Clint turns his head and gives Phil a defiant look.  “But I’m gonna be okay,” he rasps, the words filled with conviction.

 

Phil gives him a small but genuine smile.  “I know that, too.”  Phil doesn’t know anyone with more grit and determination than Clint Barton, and if he says he’s going to be okay, then Phil believes it.  But he’s not really improving, Phil has noticed.  He’s been exhausted from the poor-quality sleep he’s getting and weak from the lack of any real food; the doctors want to get him sitting up and eating solids so he can make the next step of getting out of bed and walking around a little.  Once he clears that hurdle, they can start to think about getting him out of here. 

 

“Hey, there’s some soup here…” Phil offers, picking up a bowl off the table.  “I think it’s even still a little bit warm.  How ‘bout we sit you up and you eat some of it?”

 

Clint’s already distorted face distorts even more as he scrunches his nose up in distaste.  “Maybe later,” he answers.  “Not really hungry right now.”

 

Phil considers him for a moment, then puts the bowl back down.  “Okay… later.”

 

Clint nods and turns his head, going back to staring at the ceiling.  “Go ahead and say it,” Clint tells him a moment later.  “I’m awake now – might as well get it over with.”

 

Phil knows what Clint is expecting and he knows he needs to ask the question.  But there’s probably nothing he wants to do less.  But he’s gotten part of the story and he needs to get the rest while the memories are fresh.  It’s spy-craft 101.  So he asks the same question he asks after every mission – good or bad – because he knows Clint takes comfort in ritual and routine.  “Are you ready to talk me through it?” he asks, careful to keep every trace of emotion out of his voice.

 

“Fuck, no,” Clint rasps, blinking at the ceiling a few times before turning to face Phil.  “But I will,” he adds with resignation.

 

“We can wait,” Phil tells him, knowing it’s not true.  “There’s no rush,” he lies.

 

“Nah.  The sooner I say it, then maybe the sooner I can forget about it.” 

 

“I’m sorry.”  Phil can’t stop the words from coming out of his mouth but he regrets them instantly because he just made this personal and that’s the last thing Clint needs.

 

“Shut up, Coulson,” he snaps, heat behind the words.  “We both know it needs to be done.”   

 

Phil nods slowly, reining in his control.  “When you’re ready,” Phil tells him a moment later, making it clear that he’s not pushing.  They’ve been through a lot of tough debriefs before.  Phil never pushes and Clint always gives him the same exacting detail regardless. 

 

“Where should I start?” he asks.  “You want a blow-by-blow of the fight at the airport that I said would never happen?” he gives Phil a small grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

 

Phil picks up his tablet.  “I already got that from Natasha and Sam.  How about you start after that.  With your detention at the airport, when Ross separated you…”

 

“Yeah… okay,” he says, then takes a deep breath and stares at the ceiling tiles.  “So Ross showed up… smug asshole.  I hate that fucking guy.  He said, and I quote, ‘Okay, children.  Since you can’t play nice, we’re going to take you where the naughty little boys and girls go’…”

 

Twenty minutes later, Clint’s still staring at the ceiling – his eyes haven’t strayed from there once - and his voice is barely a whisper, but he had refused to stop, telling Phil he planned to do it once and only once. 

 

When it’s apparent that he’s done, Phil clears his throat a little.  “You should know, your STD panel came back clean, including the rapid HIV test.  The final one should be back in a few more days, but the guards had complete panels before they were hired and they were all clean, so I don’t think you need to worry about it.”

 

Clint nods his acknowledgment, and Phil doesn’t say any more about it.  He knows Clint doesn’t want to discuss it, but also knows that it was probably on his mind.  Information relayed, enough said.

 

“Okay, we’re done,” Phil finishes softly, stopping the record function on his tablet.  Clint’s closed his eyes and his face is pale and drawn, but other than that he seems fine.  If that word can be used to describe someone with the kinds of injuries Clint has.  Phil doesn’t stop himself from reaching out and gently squeezing his hand. 

 

Clint turns his head toward Phil a little without opening his eyes, but gives him a weak smile.  He inhales an audible breath and winces.  “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

 

“Clint, don’t…” Phil tries to keep his voice calm but his jaw is clenched so tight that it’s obvious that he's biting the words out.

 

Clint opens his eyes and give Phil a pointed look.  “No, I just mean… I’m sorry you had to hear that.  I know it was hard for you.”

 

“Jesus, Clint…” Phil starts, scrubbing at his face, but then he stops himself.  Because six years ago (hell, three years ago) Clint would have been apologizing for what had happened to him as though it was his fault, so this is progress, at least.  Phil squeezes Clint’s hand again.  “I’m fine.  You look like you could use some rest, though.”

 

“Mmm,” Clint nods, his eyes already closed.

 

Phil waits until he’s sure Clint is asleep, then bolts from the room, hustling down the hall to the closest public toilet.  He bursts through the door and slams open a stall door, tearing at his throat to loosen his tie and open the top button of his shirt - barely managing to fold down onto his knees before the contents of his stomach are violently expelled from his body.  He wretches for long moments, gagging and coughing as his stomach contracts viciously. 

 

When his body is apparently done trying to turn his insides out, he drops back, panting against the wall of the stall, a clammy sheen of cold sweat covering his entire body.  He stares at the second hand on his watch, allowing himself exactly two minutes to sit quietly and try to calm his breathing, then he stands up and walks purposefully back to Clint’s room.     

 

AAAAAAAA

 

“No!  I need a shower,” he hears Clint yell from down the hall, presumably at the nurse who Phil knows was scheduled to give Clint another hand-bath. 

 

Phil takes a second to appreciate that Clint does seem to save his most petulant moments for when he’s out of the room, but he can already tell that this outburst is worse than usual, so he picks up his pace to try to spare the nurse.  He hasn’t been gone long - only ten minutes, to get himself some coffee and some fruit that he’s hoping he can coax Clint into eating this morning – so he’s not entirely prepared to walk into the room to see that Clint is sitting up, having removed his catheter (and has also managed to dislodged the urine bag which is now leaking onto the floor) and is trying to get out of the bed.

 

Frustrated, Phil steps up to the bed and pointedly sets the fruit and his coffee on the table.  “Clint, until you eat something-” Phil starts.  With his continued refusal to eat solid foods, the doctors are concerned about his strength and stamina and don’t want him up and around.   

 

“No!  Goddammit, Phil!” Clint’s anger spikes.  He turns to the nurse who is standing frozen and staring wide-eyed at his outburst.  “Take that shit away!” he barks at her.

 

“I’ll go get the doctor,” she yelps nervously, and scurries out of the room.

 

Phil drops his head and rubs his eyes.  “That was unnecessary,” he sighs.

 

“ _Fuck you!_ ” Clint snarls, and Phil’s head snaps up in surprise because he’s not sure he’s ever heard Clint lash out at him with so much venom before.

 

“It’s been _four fucking days_ and those _fuckers_ … had their… _hands_ all over me and I haven’t been able to wash that off yet.  I’ve been patient – _you know I have_ \- but I need a fucking shower and I need it _now_ , so you can watch me or you can help me, but one way or another it is happening.”  Clint finishes by bending over slightly, curling in pain, but his head is up and he’s still glaring at Phil.

 

Phil closes his eyes.  Right.  Jesus, of course.  He’s been so focused on the fever and trying to coax Clint to eat that he hadn’t given two seconds of consideration to this.  Phil opens his eyes to see Clint still watching him defiantly.  “Do you think you can?” Phil asks, because Phil isn’t sure Clint has the strength to do much of anything right now.

 

“ _Yes!_ ” he barks, then shoots Phil a quick, contrite look.  “If you help me,” he admits, his eyes skittering back and forth between Phil and door.

 

“Yeah, okay,” Phil concedes.  “Let’s get you up, then.”  When he sees Clint’s obvious relief and gratitude, Phil’s mind pounds with self-recrimination for missing the obviousness of Clint’s need. 

 

The whole thing is extremely difficult – for both of them, but for different reasons.  Phil helps Clint hobble over to the small bathroom, taking most of his weight, and slips the gown off of him.  He’s not sure how he manages to keep his face neutral when he sees Clint’s body fully exposed.  Maybe he doesn't.  He’s seen parts and pieces over the last few days, as the gown was shifted here and there to gain access, but never all at once like this.  The bruises from the boot kicks and myriad blows from the guards that Clint detailed out for him are suddenly manifest and it makes Phil’s stomach nearly revolt again.  If it was bad hearing about it, it’s exponentially worse actually seeing it.  Besides that, the loss of weight and muscle-mass is becoming apparent and Clint’s already-wiry frame looks thin and frail.

 

After Phil gets him undressed, he directs Clint toward the toilet.  “Sit down,” Phil orders him, and when Clint glowers at him he rolls his eyes and adds, “I need to get something to wrap your arm so the bandaging doesn’t get wet.”  Clint jerkily nods his acquiescence and Phil slowly eases him down, pretending  he doesn't notice the hiss of pain that escapes as Clint sits.  “Just stay here and behave and I’ll be back in a minute.”  Clint growls at him and one corner of Phil’s mouth tips up the tiniest bit.

 

After he wraps Clint’s arm and gets the water to the right temperature, he starts to undress, intending to get into the shower along with Clint to help, but Clint stops him with a hand on his chest and a determined expression on his face.

 

Phil feels his frustration rise; Clint’s so goddamn stubborn he wants to throttle the man sometimes.  But he stops himself from reacting, because, he knows that none of this is about him.  It’s about Clint and what he needs, and apparently he needs to do this alone.

 

The entire time Clint spends in the shower is an extreme trial of Phil’s patience and he has to repeatedly stop himself from opening the curtain to check on him.  The only opportunity he gets is when Clint asks him to make the water hotter, and then tells Phil to keep turning up the heat until it’s got to be very nearly scalding.  Phil doesn’t comment as he slides the curtain shut again because he knows there’s probably no way to make the water hot enough for Clint to feel completely clean.

 

When Phil set Clint on the narrow bench in the stall, he already looked wan and ill, so Phil’s not sure how Clint is managing it - sheer force of will, he imagines.  But somehow he does, staying under the scalding spray for fifteen minutes before he finally tells Phil he can turn the water off.  Phil suspects he would have stayed a lot longer, but when he finally does get to pull back the curtain, he can see that Clint is shaking so hard he can barely stay upright on the bench where he’s been perched.  The hot water has pinked-up his skin giving it a healthier glow than the dull grey pallor he’s been wearing, but the bruises seem darker and the colors more horrifyingly vivid as well, so Phil’s not sure if he looks better or worse.

 

But at least getting Clint back from the bathroom is easier because he doesn’t even protest when Phil wraps Clint’s good arm around his own shoulder and essentially carries him back to bed.  In the time they’ve been in the bathroom, someone has come and cleaned the mess on the floor and it looks like they’ve taken the opportunity to change the sheets.  Clint doesn’t seem to notice but Phil’s thankful for it.  The idea of putting Clint - finally having gotten to wash off the filth of the Raft – back onto the sheets that still carried that residue, is repulsive.

 

As soon as Phil lowers him back onto the bed and situates him as comfortably as he can, two anxious-looking nurses swarm to put a new gown on him and reattach his IV.  The doctor has told them they don't need to reinsert the catheter; it’s a relief to both of them.

 

“Thank you,” Clint mumbles at him, and he’s is glassy-eyed from pain and exhaustion, so Phil doesn’t even ask before he grabs the restored morphine pump and gives it two quick jabs.    

 

“Feel better now,” Clint slurs with a half-smile tipping up at the corners of his mouth. 

 

Phil doesn’t think the morphine could have worked that fast so he can only assume Clint is talking about the shower.  “That’s good,” Phil tells him, patting his shoulder.  “Now go to sleep,” he adds firmly. 

 

“Gonna be okay,” he whispers, barely audible.

 

“I know,” Phil answers and he sees the smile quirk up a little more on Clint’s lips.  No more than thirty seconds later, he’s sound asleep, and Phil is collapsed in the chair next to him, trying to control his own shakes.

 

A moment later Steve walks in and silently steps up next to the bed, but he’s looking at Phil.  “What’s wrong?” he asks urgently, and Phil realizes that every bit of the last forty-five minutes must show on his face.  “Is he…?” Steve starts, fresh worry abundant in his voice.

 

“He’s okay,” Phil answers low and quick, staring at Clint in the bed.  “He just… I just helped him take a shower.  It was a bit of an ordeal,” he sighs, swiping a hand down his face and finally looking at Steve.  Phil sees him let out a relieved breath and nod vaguely, but his eyes continue to scan Clint’s face and arms and the visible injuries there.  He’s still clearly wearing his guilt, but this is the third time he’s put that aside and come to check on Clint in the last two days, and he does much better containing it when Clint is awake. 

 

Steve looks like he's about to ask another question, but Phil's too wrung out and does not want to go into any more detail about the shower, so to divert the conversation, he speaks up instead.  “Anything new on Bucky?” he asks, and Steve twitches a little.  A small part of Phil had wanted to let out his inner fanboy when he’d heard that Steve had found his best friend.  But then the situation had turned dire so quickly and the parallels to what Clint went through with Loki were so chillingly familiar, that Phil couldn't find any pleasure in the situation, or any real disappointment in not having had the chance to meet Bucky before he submitted himself back to the cryochamber.  He’s knows it’s weighing heavily on Steve, though. 

 

Steve shakes his head, and taking a step backward, he sits in the chair next to Phil.  “No,” he answers, clearly frustrated.  “It’s difficult, being here in Wakanda.  There’s very little I can do.”

 

Phil nods and grunts in acknowledgment.  He knows the others are frustrated by the situation as well, but being confined here in Wakanda has been low on Phil’s list of concerns.  It must be hard, though, for a man of action like Steve Rogers to be stuck here, where even if he had information to follow up on, he can't leave to do anything about it.  At least for now.      

 

Phil's too drained to make small talk and Steve is either reading that from him or is content to just sit, so they fall into an easy silence.  Eventually, Steve pulls out a sketch pad and starts to draw.  Phil tries not to look – it feels invasive somehow – but he can’t stop himself from glancing over to watch.  Steve is engrossed in his task, his hand moving easily and confidently over the page.  His gaze moves back and forth between Clint and the paper in front of him and Phil is instantly uncomfortable with the idea that Steve is sketching Clint in his current condition.  He stands abruptly.

 

“I’m going to go get some coffee, can I get you some, Captain?”

 

Steve startles out of his task and looks up, tilting the sketchpad away so that Phil can’t see it.  “Oh, sure.  With cream,” he smiles.  “And please, it’s Steve.”

 

Phil gives him a weak smile and leaves quickly, needing to get away.

 

He's relieved when he returns fifteen minutes later and Steve’s sketchpad is closed and he’s reading something on a tablet.

 

“Here you go,” Phil says, handing Steve a cup.

 

“Thank you, Phil,” Steve answers, then sets down the tablet and picks up the sketchpad, slipping a loose page out of it.  “Here,” he says, handing the paper over to Phil.

 

Phil freezes for a split second, not wanting to even _look_ at the drawing, much less take possession of it.  He braces himself as he reaches out, but when he finally coaxes his eyes down to the page, his heart stutters.  It’s _not_ a drawing of Clint, broken and battered.  It’s a drawing of Clint from the shoulders up, his bow visible where he’s got it slung over his back; he’s got a boyish glint in his eye and a cocky half-smile quirked on his face. 

 

Phil can’t stop the half-gasp that escapes him.  “This is…” he stops, his throat closing up.  He forces himself to drag his eyes back up Steve, who is looking surprisingly bashful.  Phil clears his throat.  “This is remarkable,” he finally manages but it’s more a hoarse whisper than anything.  “You’re very talented.”

 

Steve shrugs dismissively.  “It’s how I see him,” he says quietly.

 

Phil collects himself a little bit and clears his throat again.  “It’s perfect,” Phil tells him, reluctantly handing the drawing back toward Steve.

 

But Steve pushes his arm back.  “Keep it,” he insists. 

 

“Are you sure?” Phil asks, but he’s already pulling the picture back to himself and staring down at it.  He really doesn't want to give it up.

 

Steve just smiles, then stands up and gathers his things.  A second later, Phil is startled from where he’s still staring at the drawing, by a hand on his shoulder.  “He’s very lucky to have you,” Steve tells him.

 

Phil flushes a little, the pleasure center of his brain sparking at the implied slight praise from Captain America.  It’s ridiculous, but a lifetime of hero-worship is hard to undo.  “We’re lucky to have each other, actually,” Phil corrects him.

 

Steve smiles warmly.  “Yes,” he agrees, looking for a few seconds at Clint before shifting focus back to Phil.  “I’m supposed to meet with T’Challa, but I’ll be back later, if that’s okay.” 

 

“Of course,” Phil affirms.  “And, thank you,” he glances at the picture again.  “Very much.”

 

Steve smiles shyly and slips out the door.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

“You can go,” Clint says out of the blue, apropos of nothing.

 

Phil looks up from where he was nodding off, reading through a report.  He hasn’t had a full night’s sleep since the night before Clint left to go meet Steve.  “What?” he asks blearily.

 

“I said, you can go,” Clint repeats.  “Back home, I mean.  You don’t need to be sitting some kind of vigil by my bedside, you know.” 

 

Phil just stares at him for a moment and he can see the defensive expression on his partner’s face.  It’s an expression he knows well and hates a lot. 

 

“What?” Clint snaps, clearly reading something in Phil’s own expression.

 

Phil sighs.  He also knows that tone.  It’s the one Clint gets when he’s spoiling for a fight – when he’s feeling insecure and needs to lash out because he knows he’s not worthy of other people’s care and attention and he needs to prove that that doesn’t matter to him.  Phil rubs his eyes viciously with his fingers.  “Can we please not do this again?” he says more sharply than he really intended.

 

“Do what?” Clint barks, a challenge in his voice.

 

Phil drops his hand and returns Clint’s stubborn glare in-kind.  “The thing where you think I’m going to leave and then I have to spend an unnecessary amount of time and energy convincing you I'm not your parents and I’m not Barney or any one of a dozen foster parents or anyone else that left you feeling abandoned and unworthy,” he answers impatiently and Clint’s face turns murderous.  Phil can’t believe what an asshole he is for saying that and can only attribute it to the fact that he's completely exhausted and worrying himself ragged because they still don’t know if his hand will ever really be functional again and Clint _won’t eat,_ but Phil can’t stop his voice from raising a couple notches when he continues.  “Can you just trust me when I say to you right now that I’m not going anywhere and I don’t _want_ to go anywhere, because I love you so much it takes my breath away sometimes, but I am too tired for the rest of it right now!”

 

Clint’s face morphs instantly and he blinks in surprise.  “That’s… I...” Clint swallows.  “You’ve never actually said that to me before,” he croaks.

 

“Yeah, well, after that zinger you threw at me when you were leaving I figured I owed you one,” Phil retorts impatiently.  Clint looks stunned but some of the fight seems to have left him and Phil sags a little in relief.  “Look, I’m sorry,” he rubs his hands up and down his face a few times before looking back at Clint.  “I know I’m not good at that part of things-”

 

“Me either,” Clint mumbles over him, his eyes darting away and back uncomfortably.

 

“-but I think we both know it’s true.  So can we just get past this awkward part and move on to where you actually believe me?”

 

Clint drops his head back onto his pillow and stares at the ceiling.  “Shit… I’m sorry.  Look, I just really need people to stop with all the… I didn’t … I don’t… Goddamn it!  Just fucking _act normal!”_

 

Phil cocks his head and pauses for a second.  “Okay, tell me how I’m not acting normal,” he asks evenly, fully back in control.

 

Clint turns his head back toward him, looking again like he's spoiling for a fight.  “You’re here, for one!  Phil, you _never_ hang around my hospital room like this.  Two, maybe three days tops after Sri Lanka, and you were back on the job, not sitting by my side in the hospital.  Now you’re hovering around here like I’m gonna _fucking shatter!_   Go back to the team, Phil.  Get on with things.  Stop sitting by my bedside like I’m I gonna fall apart if you leave.  ‘Cause I’m _not!_   I’m fine.  Jesus Christ, I’m injured, I’m not dying!  And don’t you tell me this is different, because it _isn’t!”_    The thunderous expression on Clint’s face is daring him to argue.

 

Phil pauses and gathers his thoughts.  Honestly, he’s just glad to be past the feelings part.  This is so much easier.  This he can deal with.  “Okay,” he starts calmly.  “First, I know you’ll be okay, because it’s who you are and I know that you can overcome any obstacle thrown in your path – didn’t we just discuss this yesterday?” Phil asks calmly and Clint briefly ducks his eyes.  “Second, after Sri Lanka, you were in New York and so was I, so, yes, I left and went back to the office, knowing you were fully out of the woods and that I could come back and check on you if I wanted.  Which I did - _often_ \- if you remember,” Phil points out with a cocked eyebrow.  “This isn’t quite the same though, is it?  We’re in Wakanda, and the team is thousands of miles away – it’s not like I can easily go back and forth.  Once I leave, I’m not likely to be able to come back for… who knows how long.  Despite your apparent comfort level, I’m not quite ready to do that.  And lastly, after Sri Lanka, you weren’t being a stubborn sonofabitch and refusing to do what you needed to do to get out of the hospital.  I’m not leaving until you’re eating and I know you’re going to be physically okay.”

 

Phil had seen that Clint had been slowly relaxing as he spoke, but as Phil had uttered that last line, Clint had tensed up again.  “You think I’m not going to be psychologically okay?” Clint bites out, anger renewed.

 

“Don’t twist my words, Clint,” Phil responds in frustration.  “I didn’t say that.  I said I wouldn’t leave until I know you’ll be physically okay.  You think I’d leave if I didn’t think you were going to be psychologically okay?  It was implicit in what I said that I _do_ think you will.  Right now, I’m primarily worried about you eating and getting your strength back so you can get out of here.”

 

“You know why I’m not eating…” Clint grits out, less angry but still tense.

 

“Yes.  And I understand.  And I know that eventually you're going to overcome your discomfort with the idea and take that next step.  I can wait until you do.  There’s nowhere more important for me to be.”

 

The glare disappears from Clint’s face and Phil can see him unwind a bit.  A minute later, he blinks an uneasy look over Phil’s shoulder, then shifts the expression toward Phil.  “My head might actually be a little messed up,” he admits, blowing out a frustrated breath and turning back to stare at the ceiling.

 

“You mean more than usual?” Phil asks, a smile playing on his mouth.

 

“Fuck you, Sir,” Clint retorts quickly, sliding his eyes toward Phil when he tosses out the endearment that he only ever uses tongue-in-cheek.  Phil smiles to hear the humor and affection in his voice.

 

“You’re going to be okay,” Phil tells him with confidence.

 

“I know,” he answers and huffs at the turnabout in their usual back and forth.

 

Another pause.  “It’s just… I don’t know when… if… when I’m going to be ready to…” he flicks his eyes nervously at Phil and then away again.

 

It takes Phil a moment to get where Clint was going with his stumbling words, and when he does, he stiffens and his voice turns icy.  “Clint…”

 

“No, listen, Phil.  You need to know that.  I mean.  I would completely understand-”

 

“Do _not_ finish that sentence,” Phil barks harshly and Clint clamps his mouth shut in surprise.  “If you think I would leave you because you didn’t want to be intimate, then you have not been paying very close attention for the last 6 years,” he lashes out furiously, then has to close his eyes and gather his control, because he’s not mad at _Clint_ , and Jesus Christ, he shouldn’t be yelling at him this way.

 

“Look, I know… I just…” Clint starts again.

 

 _“Clint,_ ” Phil says more softly this time.  “Whatever you need – however much time or space or anything at all.  It’s fine with me.”  Clint raises a cynical eyebrow at him and Phil rolls his eyes in exasperation.  “I have a fully functioning right hand and 6 years of ridiculously hot images of you in my head.  I can make that work for the rest of my life.”

 

Clint gives him a suggestive smile that goes all the way to his eyes and then waggles his eyebrows ridiculously, and Phil blinks as a wave of relief washes over him.  Because that gesture, _right there_ , was the key that just opened the lock to his peace of mind.  Phil had _believed_ Clint would be okay, but with that one ridiculous gesture, Phil _knows_ he will.  It’s the sign Phil has been waiting for - hoping for - to confirm that no matter what happened on the Raft, who Clint is at his core will not be ruined.  He huffs out a small laugh, then bends down and gives Clint a chaste kiss.  “I don’t need it.  All I need is you alive and in my life – in whatever way works for you.”

 

Clint grabs Phil’s tie and pulls him in for another kiss, sweet and lingering for a couple of seconds.  “Six years and I had no idea you were such a sap,” he murmurs when he finally lets go.

 

 “And if you tell anyone, I’ll deny it,” Phil answers with the tiniest grin. 

 

“I know you will,” Clint smiles at him, then turns serious again.  “I’ll try…” he adds quietly.

 

Phil closes his eyes and rests his forehead against Clint’s.  “I meant it.  I don’t care.  In your own time, Clint.  Whatever you want, whenever you want it.  And if that’s never, it won’t change anything for me.”

 

“Yeah… okay.  That’s… thanks.”

 

Phil straightens up and takes a quarter step away from the bed.  “I’m gonna go get some coffee.  Will you drink a smoothie if I bring one back?”

 

“God, Phil," he groans.  "Give it a rest already,” he rolls his eyes and waves Phil off.

 

Phil keeps his expression steady as he leaves, but when gets out into the hall, he finds the nearest chair not visible from Clint’s room and collapses into it, elbows on his knees, hands pressed together in front of his open mouth.  Clint’s going to be okay.  He _knows_ it.  He _believes_ it.  But the fury he feels toward the men who did this, whose actions would drive Clint to look at Phil with nervous eyes, fearful of rejection, is incalculable.  He fantasizes about what he will do when he sees them - because he _will_ be seeing them – of that he has no doubt.  He takes great pleasure in the thought.  A minute later he gets his breathing back under control, and then, standing, he shoots his cuffs then tugs the bottom of his jacket down, and continues on to get his coffee. 

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Phil comes awake slowly sucking in a deep yawn and rubbing his eyes.  The first thought that comes to him is that he feels rested - good, even.  Better than he has in days – since he’d gotten Steve’s call about Clint.  He sits up and looks around, furrowing his brow in momentary confusion.  _Right._   He’s in the quarters that T’Challa had provided for him, in the bed he hadn’t lain down on until last night. 

 

He remembers it was close to midnight the night before and he’d been half asleep in the chair next to Clint’s bed when he’d been surprised to see Wanda Maximoff step quietly through the door.  Phil had been glad to see her again.  He’d sought her out once after he arrived to try to find out more about what had happened, but she wasn’t overly cooperative, still apparently in shock from the events on the Raft.  But she had yet to visit Clint and although Clint denied it, Phil knew he desperately wanted to see her to assure himself she was okay.  Phil had been relieved to finally see her and so didn't concern himself too much about the fact that she had shown up so late at night. 

 

“I will sit with him,” Wanda had told him, speaking softly so she didn't wake Clint.  “You can go back to your room and sleep,” she had suggested, and suddenly that sounded like the best idea in the world.  He’d had no more than two or three hours sleep at any stretch since arriving in Wakanda – mostly in the chair next to Clint’s bed - and the idea of stretching out on a comfortable bed for a few hours sounded a bit like heaven itself.

 

But Phil had still been reluctant to leave Clint.  “It’s late…” he’d hedged.  “You must be tired yourself.”

 

“I slept most of the day away,” she shrugged.  “You should go get some rest.  Your bed would be more comfortable,” she added lightly.

 

And yes, Phil realized she was right, he could use some sleep in an actual bed.  He rubbed his hand down his face.  “Yeah, you know what?  That’s sounds great, actually,” he told her and she smiled.  “You’ll stay with him?” Phil asked her.

 

“Of course.  I won’t leave until you return.”

 

Phil looked at Clint and then back at Wanda.  “Okay, yeah.  Thank you.  I’ll be back in a few hours, tops.”

 

“Take your time.  Get as much rest as you need,” she told him.

 

“Thanks,” he had said again and started to leave, but then stopped.  “He, uh, he has nightmares,” Phil told her, glancing at Clint on the bed and then back at her. 

 

“He’ll be okay,” Wanda assured him.  “Go, get some rest.”

 

He really had intended to only sleep for a few hours - had meant to set the alarm on his phone and can't think of why he didn't - but when he looks at his watch, he’s shocked to see he’s actually slept for almost nine.  He grabs his phone and presses it to life to confirm, and sure enough, it’s 9:08 am.

 

Huh.  He knows he really needed it, but still he’s surprised.  He thinks about whether he should take the time to shower or get straight back to the hospital, and decides that Clint must be okay or someone would have called.  So he showers and dresses quickly, and though he’s hungry he doesn’t stop for any food, more or less figuring Clint’s breakfast will be available since the man continues to stubbornly refuse to eat. 

 

But when he walks into the hospital room, he stops short, staring in disbelief. 

 

Wanda is standing next to the bed and Clint is… eating.  He’s spooning what looks like some sort of cereal into his mouth from a bowl on his lap and Phil can see a mostly-empty dish of fruit on the table, a glass of juice mostly drained. 

 

An instant later, Phil has his gun out and trained on Wanda.

 

“ _Do not move_ , Ms. Maximoff,” he orders, his voice tense and hard.

 

“Phil, what…?” Clint asks, bewildered, his hand stopped midway from the bowl to his mouth.

 

Wanda turns calmly to look at Phil.

 

“I’m not kidding, Ms. Maximoff.  If you so much as twitch your little finger, I will shoot you between the eyes.”

 

“You know I could stop the bullet, right?” she answers complacently, cocky.

 

Phil doesn’t back down.  “I’m not sure your powers are that fast.”

 

“Do you want to test them?” she asks challengingly, one eyebrow raised.

 

“Do _you?_ ” Phil answers, deadly serious.

 

Phil never takes his eyes off Wanda, who is glaring at him defiantly, but out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Clint is looking back and forth between the two of them, confused, and trying to figure out what’s going on.  Phil sees the moment that realization dawns for Clint, when he suddenly looks down at the bowl propped in his lap.  Phil can see the color drain from Clint’s face as he carefully sets the spoon in the bowl, then slowly picks them both up and sets them gently back on the table, pushing it as far from him as he can reach.

 

Clint looks up at Phil and Phil can’t stop himself from turning his attention, seeing the alarm on Clint’s face.  When Clint turns back toward Wanda, his eyes are open wide and he looks like he’s about to come undone. 

 

“Wanda…” Clint whispers hoarsely.  “What did you _do?_ ”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm always happy to hear your thoughts! : )
> 
> Next up: Clint


	9. Clint II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is already tagged rape/non-con, but just to be safe, I want to forewarn that this chapter includes a brief, but graphic flashback to the non-con events from chapter 1.
> 
> Thank you so much to KippyVee for knowing all the grammar rules, and to Lexx_Ishi for on-going support and feedback.

 

** Clint II **

 

“How soon can I get outta here?” Clint whispers raggedly at Phil sometime – _he thinks_ – during the second day after he wakes up in Wakanda.  He’s probably been conscious for a total of maybe a few hours in all that time, but he’s antsy and itching to get out of this place already.  He hates anyone telling him he can’t leave someplace, no matter how comfortable they might be trying to make him.  It’s the principle of the thing.    

 

But Phil’s shaking his head before the question is even out.  “Don’t even think about it,” he warns, pinning Clint with a disapproving look.  “You need to rest and heal.  Plus, you have a fever and the doctors want to get some solid food into you first.  When was the last time you ate something?” he asks, pulling the bed-table with a tray of food on it closer to Clint.

 

“I dunno,” he answers sullenly.  “Dinner slop the night before Steve and Nat came, I guess.”  The food on the Raft had been revolting; canned everything and not a fresh fruit or vegetable in sight.  Clint had eaten it all, regardless, knowing he needed the calories to keep his strength and be ready for anything.

 

“Jesus, that was three days ago.  Here,” Phil pulls the tray even closer, “this soup is still warm.”

 

Clint looks at the tray and his stomach lurches.  “Not hungry,” he mumbles. 

 

“Clint, you know it’s harder for your body to heal if you don’t give it the fuel it needs."

 

He does know that.  But when he shifts his gaze over to the bowl of soup on the table, a fissure of panic ripples through him.  It dissipates quickly but the thought of eating makes bile rise in his throat.  It burns his abused trachea and he can’t stop the small distressed gagging sound that escapes.

 

Phil is immediately alert.  “Clint…?”

 

“I’m fine,” Clint tells him, swallowing hard.  “Just tired.  Maybe later,” he croaks and closes his eyes.  But not before he sees the flicker of concern flash across Phil’s face.  Whatever.  He’ll eat later.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Clint shifts on the bed and winces, puffing out a sharp breath.

 

“Use your morphine pump,” Phil tells him distractedly.  He's been pecking away on his tablet because Daisy had contacted him about something urgent.

 

Clint just grunts at him and carries on without.  He’s not a masochist.  The morphine is great.  The morphine works.  The morphine lets him slide temporarily into blissful, pain-free oblivion.  But the morphine also makes it hard to claw his way out of the nightmares when they start.  Which is pretty much every time he closes his eyes.

 

Clint sighs.  He knows that they’re just dreams.  That they’re safely off the Raft and Wanda is here where the guards can’t get to her anymore.  But still.  He likes to put the nightmares off for as long as possible because they’re just fucking unpleasant.  He’s no stranger to them.  He’s had a shit-ton of them his entire life.  When he was a kid, they were bad enough – typical kid stuff (okay, well, maybe not typical, since your typical childhood didn’t usually include being beaten by the guy who’s supposed to be your protector) - and then during and after the Swordsman, then after Loki, and after Sri Lanka.  Sometimes the four liked to combine in his sleep-state like some kind of child’s mix-and-match game to serve up a new and ever-more-fucked-up version of his own personal hell.  Recently, the Swordsman had joined the guards on the Raft, but he supposes that shouldn’t be a big surprise, given the circumstances.   

 

But the nightmares will fade - he knows they will – eventually becoming less distinct and easier to endure, and then showing up less and less frequently.  As a general rule, Clint doesn’t find them too difficult to deal with given enough time and distance from events.  Occasionally he even sleeps through them in their entirety, waking to just a hazy recollection or feeling vaguely ill at ease. 

 

For now, though, things are still too fresh, the physical pain reminding him of things that are too real, and he’d just as soon be able to extricate himself when the dreams become too… unpleasant.  So, no morphine for as long as he can stand it. 

 

Instead, he settles into the pain and turns to Phil.  “How’s Scott Lang?  Have you seen him?  Is he okay?”

 

Phil shakes his head, looking up.  “I haven’t seen him.  Sam has. He tells me he’s more-or-less fine, but may be having a hard time with all of this.”

 

“Yeah,” Clint answers softly.  He feels genuinely bad for the guy.  “This was a pretty big shit-show for a newby,” Clint sighs, and Phil nods.  They both know what that feels like.

 

“So, you know, Scott’s got a kid.  A little girl,” Clint tells Phil.

 

“Mmmm,” Phil nods, blinking tiredly into his coffee cup now.  “I’ve read his file.”

 

“And, ya know… he wasn’t part of the whole Lagos mess.”

 

“Neither were you,” Phil points out, narrowing his eyes at Clint a little.

 

Clint gives Phil an unimpressed look.  “Right.  But I was in Sokovia, and listed in the Accords; Lang wasn’t.”

 

“Well, he’s been on SHIELD’s radar for a while now, it was only a matter of time before he was on Ross’s, too.”  Phil tilts his head slightly.  “What’re you getting at, Clint?”

 

Clint shrugs, then grimaces at the pull in his ribs and shoulders.  “Just, you know…” he grits out hoarsely, “…doesn’t seem right that he’s stuck here with all of us fugitives-”

 

“Technically he’s also a fugitive…”

 

“-when he wasn’t really part of this whole mess in the first place.”

 

Phil stares at Clint for a moment and Clint can see the moment he decides to stop playing dumb and just acquiesce to Clint’s request.  “I’ll see what I can do,” he sighs.

 

Clint knew he would, because Phil hates bullies almost as much as Clint does.  Clint beams at him.  “That’s all I ask.”

 

“I can’t promise I’ll be able to do _anything_.  If Secretary Ross has caught wind that I’m here in Wakanda with the seven of you I’ll have no leverage whatsoever,” Phil warns him.

 

Clint gives him a lopsided smirk.  “Oh, come on, Phil.  We both know you can do nearly anything you put your mind to.”

 

“ _Nearly_ ,” Phil points out.  “But since I can’t manage to do the most important thing – which is keep you safe – I’m not sure you should put so much faith in me.”

 

That’s skirting a little too close to talking about things they don’t talk about, so Clint ignores it and closes his eyes and tries not to fall asleep. 

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Opening his eyes and finding himself alone, Clint hits the button to ease the bed into more of a sitting position.  Once he’s settled, he carefully reaches across with his left hand and gently picks up his bandaged right arm, settling it across his lap.  It hurts like a sonofabitch to strain his left arm and shoulder that way, and there’s a deep, _deep_ ache throbbing under the bandages, but Clint ignores it all.  

 

He’s been thinking about his fingers obsessively since he and Sam had talked about it and he feels a desperate need to _see_ them, once and for all.  When he’d woken up the second time, the doctor had given him a more thorough rundown of his injuries than the quick list Phil had rattled off to him the first time.  None of it was a surprise – like he told Wilson, he remembered every bit of it and could connect every fracture and bruise and suture to a blow or kick or invasion that he recalled with perfect clarity.

 

Except for his damn fingers.   He’d almost panicked - probably would have if he hadn't been so heavily drugged - when the doctor had explained about the microvascular surgery they had undertaken in an effort to save his fingers and the odds of its success.  He honestly didn’t know what he would do if he lost his ability to use a bow effectively.   The thought is almost paralyzing. 

 

Clint glares at his hand then takes a stuttering breath and begins to unwind the layers of bandaging.  He’s trying to hurry because he suspects someone else will probably materialize soon since they all seem to think he’s so fucking fragile that they can’t leave him alone for two seconds.  It’s slow going, though, because there are so many layers padding his hand and the controlled movement required is excruciating.

 

When he finally gets to the bottom layer he pauses.  He closes his eyes for a few seconds, takes a calming breath, then opens his eyes and peels back the gauze without any further hesitation.  As soon as his hand is exposed, Clint freezes and his breath hitches as he takes it in.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers to himself, feeling a sudden, huge surge of adrenaline that causes his entire body to tense, sending shockwaves of pain throughout.  “Fuckfuckfuck…” he gasps, because how are the fingers he’s looking at ever going to function properly again?

 

His three middle fingers are swollen almost beyond recognition as fingers.  They are mottled black and purple and there are suture lines running down them.  Clint hears a primal whimper push its way out of him but the sound is distant and hollow because he’s no longer in a hospital bed in Wakanda; he’s very suddenly back on the Raft... 

 

…his face is slammed viciously onto the desk again and he hears dirty laughter.  He sees #3 in his periphery, moving into view with something in his hand.  His cock is hanging out obscenely, already half-erect for the second time.  “Uncurl his fingers,” he orders #17, who is the other bystander at the moment.  Number 17 does as directed, prying Clint’s fist open and flattening his fingers against the surface.  Clint resists – like he’s resisting everything – but once again he’s no match when it’s five against one.

 

And then Clint sees the flashlight in #3’s hand.    

 

It’s a Maglite.  One of those big fuckers, at least 18 inches long and taking six D-cell batteries.  Solid, _heavy_ , and definitely not standard issue in any prison because it could easily be used as weapon if an inmate got ahold of it.

 

Clint’s eyes go wild and a renewed sense of panic sets in; he starts to struggle violently to get away.  He’s been fighting all along, but a new rush of adrenaline hits him and he almost breaks free.  Almost.  He sees #3 raise the flashlight up high and then swing it down, and he tries to curl his fingers back into a protective fist but he can’t.  It takes half an instant to register the pain on top of all the other pain he’s already in, and then the wave of agony hits him so hard that a violent, full-throated scream rips out of him for the first time. 

 

“Shut ‘im up!” #3 shouts and #10 reaches from behind where he’s ramming himself mercilessly into Clint and wraps both of his meaty hands around Clint’s throat in a punishing grip, completely cutting off his airflow.  His scream is instantly silenced.

 

He watches as #3 grasp his own cock and gives it a few rough tugs, thumb sliding over the slick head and working it into another hard erection, before raising his other arm and wielding the Maglite down again.  Black spots have already begun to swim before Clint’s eyes and his vision is narrowing when the flashlight lands a second devastating blow.  Clint’s body jolts reflexively and forcefully upward, powered by more panic and adrenaline, surprising the guards.  The three that have their hands on him quickly regain control, but #10’s hands have slipped from their crushing hold on his neck so that a small amount of blessed air gets through.  Clint breathes in and out hard through tightly-clenched teeth, spit and blood flying everywhere.  Somehow he manages not to let loose with another scream, hoping to avoid the complete suffocating shut-off of his air again, but there are still wheezing noises of distress escaping out of him.    

 

The entire time, #10 has continued to piston into him and that distraction is probably the only reason he hasn’t strangled Clint completely.  Suddenly, though, the hands are gone from his neck entirely and Clint desperately gulps for air.  But the respite is short-lived because Clint only gets a few painful, deep breaths before #10 leans over and wraps a thick forearm around Clint’s neck, pulling him up a bit and using him as leverage to pound into him even harder.  Clint struggles to breathe as he sees #3 step into view again in front of him, the Maglite in one hand, the other working his cock hard.  The guard’s face is red and he’s panting like he’s getting close, and Clint’s relief is immeasurable when he sees him drop the flashlight to the floor so he can reach down and grasp his balls with his other hand. 

 

Clint is about to pass out, the arm on his neck is too tight, when he feels the asshole’s shuddering release and he can suddenly breathe again.  As his vision clears, he sees #3 step up close, his cock presses against Clint’s face…

 

… and Clint is abruptly back in the hospital room in Wakanda, staring at his hashed-up hand again and panting wildly as his entire body flares with searing pain.  He squeezes his eyes shut tightly and tries to calm his breathing because every gasp feels like he’s being stabbed, but instead the desperate gulps of air speed up.  Within seconds he’s consumed by a full-blown panic attack and, Jesus Christ, that pisses him off.  He knows where he is, he knows he’s safe, he knows the guards are a continent and an ocean away.  He knows that the panic is an autonomic response to stimuli that his body and brain are directing to his amygdala.  But even knowing all of that, he still completely loses control.

 

A nurse comes rushing in about 10 seconds later, followed closely by a doctor, and Clint tries to tell them he’s okay but he can’t get the words out because he’s pretty much hyperventilating, and every breath is fucking _agony_  because of his ribs, and because he’s jostled his bad hand, so all he can do is look at them with pain-filled and panicked eyes, and he _hates_ it.  But the doctor is fast and efficient, and 15 seconds later, she’s injecting something - probably some kind of benzodiazepine – into his line and he feels an immediate flood of relief.     

 

Phil bursts in the door seconds after she pushes the drugs like he has some sixth sense to know something is wrong, his frantic eyes immediately searching out Clint’s to get a handle on his status.  “I’m okay…” Clint pants, his breathing starting to calm but he knows his face probably still looks a little wild.

 

“I know,” Phil answers calmly, and Clint’s suddenly _pissed_ about that, too, because every time Clint says he’s okay, Phil agrees and he’s sick to death of it.  But he can’t articulate it because the drugs are fast, and though Clint’s breathing has calmed, his brain is sluggish and his eyelids are already being pulled shut. 

 

“… stop…” he slurs, trying to get out what he needs to say, but that’s all he can manage because his tongue feels thick and clumsy.   He catches a glimpse of Phil’s tortured expression before the weight of his eyelids is too much to withstand and they slide inexorably shut.

 

“I’m here,” he hears Phil say, and the man is squeezing Clint’s good hand so tightly that he’s sure Phil can’t be aware of it.  “I’m not going anywhere.”

 

AAAAAAAA

When he’s coherent again after the flashback, the doctor explains that while, yes, Clint’s fingers _look_ very bad, it's not unexpected for the damage they sustained and the surgery he underwent.  They have every reason to believe that he could gain back use of the digits, but they have to heal.  And they can’t heal properly - they tell him pointedly - if Clint doesn’t leave them wrapped and immobilized until the swelling diminishes enough that they can remove the sutures and put him in a proper cast.  Sam gives him disapproving looks and Phil just looks worried.  Clint ignores both, but he’s glad Natasha’s not here because her disapproving looks are way worse than Sam’s.  Or at least he would be glad if he weren’t worried sick over where the hell she disappeared to. 

 

The dreams have gotten worse and Clint’s pretty fucking exhausted.  He knows he should just stick it out, let the nightmares run their course and finish his sleep cycles, but when they’re this fresh and distinct like this, he finds he can’t stop himself from waking out of them.  The net result is that he’s more-or-less tired as shit and just now he’s also mentally drained from trying (but failing) not to think about his last dream which featured the Swordsman watching with his dick in hand rather than guard #3, as the others brutalize an adolescent Clint across the desk on the Raft.

 

_Fuck._

 

This all sucks balls and he’s bored as fuck ‘cause there’s nothing to watch on the television mounted on the wall except soccer ( _soccer!_ ).  Phil’s sitting next to the bed engrossed in his tablet and suddenly Clint’s just irritated as fuck, remembering Phil telling him that he knew Clint would be fine while Clint was in the middle of a fucking panic attack.  He stares at the television and pushes out an impatient breath, trying to hold back, but in the end, he can’t stop himself from lashing out.

 

“I’m _fine_ , you know,” Clint says through gritted teeth, not quite able to keep the sharpness out of his voice even if the hoarseness mutes it a bit.  He feels a little like an asshole for baiting Phil this way, but he’s never claimed not to be an asshole. 

 

“I know,” Phil answers automatically, not looking up from his tablet.

 

“ _Stop patronizing me!_ ” Clint barks and Phil’s head snaps up at him in surprise. 

 

“I’m not,” he answers calmly, but Clint just exhales loudly through his nose, darting his eyes agitatedly back and forth between Phil and the stupid-ass soccer game.

 

After a moment of pointed silence Phil cocks his head, “Why would you think I’m patronizing you?” he asks, and if words could hold a gesture, this one would look as though Phil was very carefully trying to approach a wild animal.  That just pisses Clint off even more.

 

He turns his full attention and glare toward Phil.  “Because every time I say I’m okay, you say ‘I know’.”  His jaw is clenched and with his damaged throat, the words come out more growl than anything else. 

 

Phil considers him for a few moments before answering.  “When you say you’re okay, is that the truth? Or are you just placating me?” he asks, his voice smooth and calm and carrying no accusation.

 

Clint’s still pissed off, but Coulson has a way of taking the sail out of Clint’s wind with his even tone and carefully chosen words, making it nearly impossible for Clint to keep up his argumentative state. 

 

“It’s the truth,” Clint answers immediately, then pauses and gives Phil a frustrated look.  “It _is_ the truth.  I mean… I know I _will_ be okay… even if I’m a little shaky now.  I _will_ , Phil,” he asserts, and he knows his fierce determination is audible in his voice and visible on his face, even if it isn’t 100% solid in his head.

 

“And I know that,” Phil says gently, and it’s like a hypnotist snapping his fingers and making Clint relax.  “Because I know you, Clint.  I know that what happened on the Raft was bad, but I also know that you’ve been through a lot of bad things in the past and you’ve _survived them_ , and come out stronger for it.  So when you tell me that you’re okay, I’m _not_ patronizing you.  I just… believe you.”

 

Clint stares at him for a minute, trying to hold onto his anger but not succeeding.  Christ, he’s such an asshole; he really wonders why Phil puts up with him.  “Yeah, okay,” he whispers roughly.  “Sorry.  I just… okay,” he finishes, and turns back to looking at the soccer game, embarrassed by his childish outburst.

 

“Okay,” Phil acknowledges after a beat and Clint can _feel_ Phil scrutinizing him.  “Rest your voice, Clint.  Maybe try to get some sleep.”  Clint closes his eyes against the worry he hears in the words.  “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

 

Ah, shit.  No matter what kind of front Clint puts up, he can’t deny to himself that those words are a comfort. 

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Clint startles awake a few days into his “stay” in Wakanda to find the King of said-country standing next to his bed, staring at him intently.  Clint tenses and his eyes do a quick scan of the room, looking for Phil, or anyone else, but the two of them are alone.  He doesn’t know if that’s by design or coincidence, and that makes him uneasy.  He gives a split second of consideration to his ability to fight and knows he’s pretty much screwed.  He might be able to muster some small defense, but best-case scenario, he gets in maybe a good blow or two before the inevitable happens.  Clint’s injuries aren’t terrible, but they’re bad enough to make any kind of movement really fucking painful and slow him down in anything he might try.  It would probably take all of two seconds for the King to incapacitate him completely, if not kill him outright.

 

“Please, do not concern yourself.  I am not here to hurt you,” T'Challa tells him, as though reading Clint’s mind.  “I would not have given you refuge here in my country, and within the security of my palace walls, if my intent was to harm you,” he adds, a small but kind smile creasing his face.

 

Clint relaxes a little – just a little – because that’s a fair point, but he’s still feeling too vulnerable for real comfort.  “Uh…” Clint starts, not at all sure what the hell to say.  But he’s saved for the moment when Phil practically bursts in the room, his eyes wide.  He quickly steps up next to the King, and Clint can see that he’s ready to go on the defensive.  Or offensive, it’s hard to tell.  Clint huffs silently.

 

“Your Highness,” Phil says calmly, but Clint can see the tension in his shoulders.

 

T’Challa has turned and he nods at Phil.  “Mr. Coulson,” he acknowledges, extending his hand out.  “Ms. Romanov told me of your arrival.  Forgive me, both of you,” he gestures at Clint, then back at Phil, “for not coming sooner, but other duties kept me away.”

 

“Of course,” Phil answers, shaking the King’s hand and darting a questioning glance at Clint.  Clint gives him a minute shrug.

 

T’Challa turns back to Clint.  “As I was about to say, we haven’t met, yet.  I am T’Challa,” he says, bowing his head slightly in Clint’s direction.  Clint notes his choice of words, remembering their exchange at the airport.

 

“Uh… Clint Barton,” he croaks, feeling stupid for saying it because obviously T’Challa knows who he is, but he figures it’s probably royal etiquette or something.  He awkwardly gestures toward his bandaged right hand to apologize for not offering it to shake.

 

“You are a very brave man, Clint Barton,” T’Challa says with sincerity.  “I am honored to know you and humbled to have fought in battle against you.”

 

Clint shifts a little on the bed and winces, quickly wrapping his good arm around his ribcage.  “Uh, really?” he puffs, trying to catch his breath.  “‘Cause the way I remember it, you more or less kicked my ass.”  Clint moves his arm down to brace it on the bed and adjusts his position very carefully.  “In fact, I’m pretty sure _some_ of these bruises are from you,” he nods vaguely toward his torso.

 

T’Challa tilts his head.  “Perhaps.  And my apologies if I have added to your suffering.  I have the advantage of unique protection on the field of battle.  You do not.”

 

“Yeah… I’m just a guy with a bow,” Clint mumbles, sighing.

 

“Do not underestimate yourself, Clint Barton.  You have proven yourself to be much more than that,” he says, looking at Clint pointedly. 

 

Clint darts his eyes away and squirms uncomfortably as the moment hangs awkwardly. 

 

Eventually, T’Challa shifts and breaks the small tension in the room.  “But.  As to your bow...” 

 

Clint grunts and grimaces.  It was his favorite bow and he’d lamented its demise a lot since T’Challa snapped it in two on the tarmac.  He keeps his mouth shut though, because the guy is apparently protecting them at the moment and it’s probably best not to antagonize him.

 

“If I may,” he looks quickly to Phil then back to Clint.  “I have my technicians working on fabricating a new bow for you – made of Vibranium.  A replacement… for the weapon you lost in our conflict.” 

 

Clint sucks in a breath, because, _holy shit!_   A Vibranium bow would be strong as shit and light-weight, and pretty much indestructible.  His rising excitement is quickly dampened, though, when Clint remembers his hand, and he jerks his head reflexively to look down at the useless appendage.  When he looks up again, he sees T’Challa looking regretfully at the bandaged hand as well, and then Clint startles a tiny bit when he glances toward Phil to see his blue eyes watching him – reading him.

 

A second later, Phil shifts his gaze to the King.  “That’s very generous, Your Highness,” he says, relieving Clint of the need to reply.  “I know Clint would make good use of a bow like that.”

 

“My gift to you,” he confirms, looking up into Clint’s face now.  “An apology and a gesture of goodwill.”

 

Clint narrows his eyes at the King.  “Yeah… about that… Can I ask you something?” he asks, changing the subject because he doesn’t want to think any more about what happens if his fingers don’t work after all of this and he can’t hold the damn bow anyway. 

 

“Of course,” T’Challa replies politely.

 

“Why exactly did you let us come here?  The last time we saw each other we weren’t exactly on friendly terms,” Clint raises an interested eyebrow and he can see Phil watching T’Challa closely.

 

“You are correct,” T’Challa dips his head in agreement.  “At the time, I could not see clearly through my grief.  I have come to understand that I was wrong and that we were all manipulated by outside forces.”   Something dark flashes over his face but disappears quickly.  “But I harbor no ill will toward you, Clint Barton, nor any of your cohort, and so you shall stay here for as long as you want or need, and should there be anything you desire, you will make it known to me and I will ensure that you have it.”

 

Clint shakes his head.  “No… really… you don’t have to…”

 

“Ah, but I do,” he insists.  “I would like to count you all as friends, and this is how friends treat one another, is it not?”

 

Clint scowls a little.  He's actually had very little experience with the whole “friends” concept until Phil and Natasha came along, and now the Avengers.  And, yeah, it may be how you treat your friends but he’s still uncomfortable with the idea of being anyone else’s burden…

 

“Thank you,” Phil interrupts his thoughts.  “We appreciate it.  Very much.”  Phil reaches out to shake T’Challa’s hand again.

 

“You are very welcome,” T’Challa bows his head at them, again.  “And now, my apologies, but I must leave.  I have several things I must attend to, but I hope to see you again soon.”

 

“Of course,” Phil acknowledges respectufully, stepping aside to open the path to the door.

 

T’Challa smiles at them both and departs silently.

 

Clint and Phil just stare after him for a moment. 

 

“Well, that was weird,” Clint finally rasps, turning back to Phil.

 

“Yeah,” Phil agrees, nodding vaguely, still staring at the door. 

 

“Vibranium bow would be pretty cool, though,” Clint murmurs, a boyish smile playing on his face.

 

Phil turns his own smile toward him.  “Very cool,” he agrees, nodding his head.

 

“You know… if I can… actually pick it up when I get this off,” he adds, staring at his useless hand again.

 

“You will,” Phil says.

 

The words are so confident, that Clint can almost believe it.     

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Phil makes a small sound of surprise and Clint turns to look at him.  He’s reading something on his tablet, his brow furrowed furiously.

 

“What?” Clint rasps, concerned.

 

Phil startles out of his concentration and looks up at him, then flicks his eyes back to the tablet and back up at Clint.

 

“What’s the matter?” Clint scratches out more urgently.

 

“Um…” Phil looks down as though in confusion again.

 

“ _Phil!_ ” Clint demands, significantly more concerned now because Clint can count the number of times on one hand – hell, one finger - that he’s heard Phil sound unnerved enough to start a sentence with ‘um’.  “ _What?_ ”

 

Phil shakes himself out of his distraction and clears his throat.  All of this is making Clint decidedly nervous.  “I just got an email… it says that the five guards who attacked you on the Raft are dead.”

 

Clint blinks, stunned, and the tense silence hangs for a moment.  “Are you... are you sure?” Clint swallows thickly.

 

“No,” Phil admits.  “It’s an anonymous email,” he says, frowning down at his tablet again.

 

Clint considers for a moment, then looks up at Phil.  “How?”

 

“Don’t know,” he shakes his head.  “It doesn’t say,” he murmurs, distracted again.

 

“Huh…” says Clint, mind scrambling to make sense of it. 

 

Phil clears his throat again.  “They, uh, they weren’t together.”

 

“What?” Clint asks, not getting what Phil is saying.

 

“After…” Phil starts and stops, then pauses and looks directly at Clint.  “A couple of days ago.  They were detained and then removed from Raft and were being held in different facilities.”

 

“They were?” Clint says, surprised as hell at that.

 

Phil gives him a quizzical look.  “Yes,” he answers, then his expression shifts.  “Did you think they wouldn’t be punished for what they did?” Clint can hear Coulson’s anger ramping up.

 

Clint sighs.  “It’s the Raft, Phil.  Nobody cares what happens to the people who end up there.”

 

“Jesus, Clint!” Phil says sharply.  “ _I_ care!  When are you-?” but he cuts himself off and seems to be visibly trying to restrain himself.  A second later, he stands abruptly.  “I’m going to go make a few calls,” Phil tells him before disappearing out the door.

 

Well.  He didn’t handle that very well.  Story of his life.  Clint groans in frustration.  Fuck, this is all so exhausting.  It seems like every interaction he has with every single person is fraught with potential landmines and emotional time bombs.  Clint’s nearing the edge of his tolerance for all of it.

 

But he pushes that aside because more pressing in his mind is the question of who killed the guards.  Clint more or less assumes that very few people know what happened on the Raft.  Outside of the handful of them here in Wakanda, there’s Phil’s team back home – but that may be limited to only Daisy; she certainly didn’t do it and she might not even know the whole story.  Probably some of the other Raft personnel would have heard rumors of what went on, but he’s pretty sure it’s not something any of them would be advertising.  Could be damage control by the Secretary of State, but it seems extreme, even for a megalomaniac like Ross.

 

Stark knows; Nat had told him.  Clint thinks about that for a few seconds but dismisses it.  Stark’s pretty crazy, but he’s not a cold-blooded murderer.  Not to mention that he and Stark aren’t exactly close enough to inspire that level of retribution on Stark’s part. 

 

All arrows seem to be leading to the same place and Clint has come to an unsettling conclusion by the time Phil slinks back in twenty minutes later.

 

“I’m sorry,” Phil says immediately, looking composed and determined.  “I’m not angry at you.  This whole situation has just got me on edge, but I shouldn’t have snapped at you that way.”  He lays his right hand on the bed near Clint’s left one, but doesn’t touch him, letting Clint decide if he wants the contact.

 

It’s comforting and annoying at the same time.  He hates being treated like spun glass.  He’s _not_ _fragile._   Nonetheless, he slides his little finger over to settle against Phil’s hand.  Phil stares at the connection for a few seconds then takes a deep breath and exhales loudly.

 

“I got confirmation.  All five are dead,” he says flatly, still staring down at the small link between the two of them.

 

Clint doesn’t say anything for a moment, then steels himself.  “Nat…?” he whispers worriedly, because she disappeared for two days and who else would have, or could have, done it?

 

Phil jerks his head back up and shakes it vigorously.  “No.  No, it couldn’t have been Natasha.  They were killed in the last eight hours.  She was sitting here four hours ago.”

 

“Oh, god,” Clint breathes out, dropping his head back onto his pillow in relief.  He would never forgive her for taking that kind of stupid risk for him.  “Do you know how?” he eventually asks.  Because this is a real fucking mystery now.

 

“Bullets to the back of the head,” Phil answers.  “Execution,” he adds unnecessarily.

 

“Phil…” Clint says, his eyes darting uneasily, because it is seriously unnerving when you don’t know who the players are.

 

“I know,” he answers gravely.  “I’ll keep working on it.”

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Phil tries to concentrate on the report he’s reading as Clint and Steve chatter over the baseball game.  Well, Steve’s chattering; Clint’s mostly just humming in agreement or adding a word here or there, since the doctors have been making grave comments about the necessity of resting his voice.  Phil looks up and his stomach sinks like it does every time he looks at Clint lately.  His pallor is grey, making the purple and black bruising on his face stand out in even starker contrast.  But more disconcerting are his obvious signs of weakness and lack of energy.  If they don’t get some real food into him soon, Phil’s afraid of what the doctors are going to say. 

 

He feels a brief stab of anger toward Steve and turns away, trying to bank it before it overwhelms him.  He’s been struggling with rising resentment as Clint’s condition seems to deteriorate.  He’s admired Captain America since he was a child, but now he can’t seem to stop himself from laying some of the blame on him for what happened to Clint.  He sighs and scrubs his hands over his face a few times and looks back over at the two of them.  He knows he has to let that go – that what he said to Steve a couple of days ago is the truth, and that the people who are really to blame for this are all dead now.

 

Phil learned a long time ago that to do this job you have to approach it with a healthy dose of both idealism and pragmatism.  You can’t change the past, and try as you might, you can’t always affect the future the way you want.  Sometimes the best you can hope to do is roll with the punches and if you’re lucky you come out standing on the other end.  He stares at the untouched tray of food next to Clint’s bed and wonders if they’ll get that lucky this time.

 

His thoughts are interrupted when Clint finally shows a spark of life and hoots at something that happens in the game.  Judging by the scowl on Steve’s face, he’s sure it’s bad for the Dodgers. 

 

“I told you, Rogers,” Clint gloats.  “Cubs are going to take the pennant and win the World Series.  This is their year,” he snarks happily.  His voice is cutting in and out but he gets his point across.

 

Steve gives Clint a sharp look and then his expression turns wicked.  He pats Clint lightly on the shoulder.  “That’s so sweet that you actually believe that,” he tells Clint.

 

“Oh, it is _on_ , Rogers,” his outrage evident despite the words being barely more than a whisper.  “I’ll give you any odds you want that the Cubs win the World Series in 2016…”

 

Phil smiles at the familiar, friendly banter that he hasn’t heard in far too long.  It goes a long way to helping him put aside his resentment.  He sets down his tablet, then stands up and stretches; Clint’s in good hands and he could use a shower.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

 _…_ _Clint turns back toward Wanda, his eyes are open wide and he looks like he’s about to come undone._

_“Wanda,” Clint whispers hoarsely.  “What did you **do**?”  _

 

Wanda slowly turns to face Clint again and Phil cocks his gun; the small sound reverberates in the fraught room.

 

“What did you do?” Clint asks again, feeling dizzy and sick.  He’s searching her face frantically, suddenly terrified that he doesn’t know what’s real and what’s not.  Peripherally, Clint sees Phil take a step closer. 

 

Wanda stands up straighter and crosses her arms defiantly.  “I made amends,” she tells Clint simply, firmly.

 

“Explain what that means, Ms. Maximoff,” Phil demands and Clint can hear the fear and cold fury in the clipped words.

 

“Did you… did you mess with my head?” Clint whispers roughly, still stunned by the turn of events and hoping against hope that he’s wrong.

 

Wanda doesn’t say anything, just stares back at him, self-assured, refusing any contrition.

 

“ _Jesus,_ Wanda,” Clint drops his head back onto the pillow and squeezes his eyes closed.  “Just fucking _tell me_ what you did,” he bites out, using every ounce of restraint he has to control himself and not tear ruthlessly into her.

 

“I only did what you did,” she answers slowly, challenging him.

 

He opens his eyes.  “What does that mean?” he snaps, then flicks a glance briefly at Phil.  “And you can put the gun down, Coulson.”

 

Phil hesitates, but Clint gives him a single nod, and Phil finally lowers the weapon – though not putting it away completely, Clint notices.

 

He turns back to the girl standing next to his bed.  “Wanda, tell me what you did.  _Exactly_ what you did,” he demands, more force behind the scratchy words this time.

 

She considers him for a moment and then uncrosses her arms and her face softens.  “I wore out your memories,” she confesses.

 

Clint and Phil both stare at her.  “You what?  You _wore them…?”_ Clint finally asks, confused.  “Damn it, Wanda, what does that _mean?_ ” he asks impatiently.

 

Wanda blows a loud breath through her nose.  “Sam told us that trying not to think about something makes the memories more difficult.  He said that after you have thought about something a lot, memories become less sharp, and if they are bad memories, they become easier to think of.  So I did that… I wore them out.”

 

Clint shifts an uneasy glance over to Phil, then back at her.  “Wanda…”

 

“I took nothing from you,” she rushes to clarify.  “All of your memories are still there – _all_ of them.  I didn’t take any away or add anything.  I just made them less… new.  Worn out,” she adds, standing tall.  “It would happen eventually all by itself.  I just made it happen sooner.”

 

No one says anything for a few moments while Clint and Phil both take that in.  Clint’s mind races to understand what she’s said. 

 

Phil breaks the silence.  “What did you do to _me?_ ” Phil asks her, a hard edge to his voice.

 

She turns toward Phil and hesitates, looking uneasy.  “You were trying to decide if you should go to your room to sleep anyway.  I just helped you make the choice to do it.”

 

Clint sees Phil’s eyes flash with renewed anger.  “Ms. Maximoff…” he starts, the words pushed out through clenched teeth, and Clint can see that he wants to raise his gun again.

 

“Wanda,” Clint interrupts him, shaking his head.  “You can’t _do_ that.  You can’t just make those decisions by yourself when they affect other people.  You can’t take their choice away.”

 

“But _you_ can?” she snaps stubbornly.

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“You did not give me any choice when you did what you did on the Raft.  You knew I didn’t want you to do this for me,” she argues, waving a hand over him to indicate his many injuries.  “I kicked at the wall every day to tell you that, but you did not listen and did it anyway.”

 

Well, shit.  “Wanda…”

 

“Do not tell me it is not the same, because it is!” she yells, watching him defiantly.  “Do you regret what you did?” she asks, raising an eyebrow at him pointedly. 

 

Clint’s nostrils flare and he glares, exhaling a frustrated breath. 

 

“ _Do you?_ ” she demands to know, crossing her arms over her chest brashly.

 

“No,” he admits after a beat, giving her an equally defiant look.  There’s no way he’d rather have _her_ in this bed instead of him. 

 

“Then you cannot be angry at me for doing no more than you did,” she tells him intractably. 

 

“I didn’t-” he starts.

 

“Yes!” she cuts him off.  “You did!  You wrongly believe yourself to be responsible for Pietro’s death, so you protect me to make amends for that.  I am responsible for what happened to you on the Raft-”

 

“ _No_ , Wanda!”

 

“-and so I make amends for that.  It is no different.  And if you are going to insist that I was wrong to do this – for helping you – then you must admit that you were wrong to do the same."

 

Clint feels a little shell-shocked at her words - he knows there must be flaws in her argument, but he’s honestly having trouble finding them. 

 

She steps even closer to his bed, uncrossing her arms.  “I was in trouble on the Raft and you helped me.  You were in trouble here in the hospital I helped you,” she says more gently and Clint’s eyes dart involuntarily over to the food on the table and back.  “We helped each other, Clint.  You will not regret what you did and neither will I,” she tells him, still softly, but no less emphatically for it.

 

Clint stares at her wide-eyed, astonished by her assertive words and confidence. 

 

Wanda studies him for a few seconds, then reaches out and lightly places her hand on his wrist.  “You tell me to trust myself, Clint.  You tell me to get off my ass.  You tell me to make amends.  That is what I did.”  She gives Phil a quick nervous look, then rests her attention back on Clint. 

 

Clint studies her face for a long moment, then looks down at the bed and considers what she said.  Clint sighs.  He shakes his head and a small huff makes its way out of him.   He can’t really blame her.  He _has_ been telling her all along to do this – to take control of her actions and motives, of her own fate.  He pushed her to take her agency, and she finally did; making her own choices.  Trusting her gut.

 

He knows she’s waiting for him to yell, to keep challenging her – but he looks back up at her and she is standing her ground, still defiant, brave, sure in her reasoning and actions.  He looks at her and sees she is strong, determined, independent.  What he sees… is an Avenger. 

 

Clint nods his head slowly and flicks a quick look over to Phil before turning to Wanda again.  “Okay… yeah,” he concedes.

 

Wanda and Phil both look at him in surprise.

 

“Clint?” Phil asks warily, then looks sharply at Wanda.  “Are you…?” he snarls and raises his gun to point it at her again.

 

“No!  I am not doing anything!” Wanda asserts.

 

“Phil, it’s alright.  She’s not controlling me,” Clint assures him tiredly.

 

“With all due respect, Barton, how would you know?” Phil grits through his teeth, never taking his eyes from Wanda.

 

Clint looks at Wanda and then back at Phil and sighs loudly.  “Because I know her, Phil.  I know she wouldn’t do that if I’m sitting right here telling her not to,” he looks pointedly at Wanda. 

 

“I am _not_ ,” she insists, her chin held high.  “And I _would_ not,” she says, glaring at Coulson.  “I know what Loki did.  I would never take his memories away from him, or make him do something against his will.  I _only_ made the memories worn.” 

 

“Phil, put the gun down,” Clint repeats.  “Please,” he adds more gently.

 

Phil flicks his eyes between the other two a couple of times, then lets them rest on Clint.  After a few more seconds, he lowers his gun again and flips on the safety.

 

Clint lets out a relieved breath.  He wants to close his eyes and sleep – he’s crashing hard – but he knows this isn’t the end of it.  

 

Phil shifts in his stance and Clint can see that he’s still on a razor-thin edge.  “Ms. Maximoff, I think you should leave now,” Phil tells her.  Clint can tell he’s working hard to maintain control.

 

Wanda hesitates and looks at Clint; he gives her a small nod.  “We’re not done talking about this, so don’t think you’re off the hook,” he tells her, but he doesn’t put any heat behind the words and she just gives him a small smirk.  Suddenly he thinks he knows exactly how Phil has felt all of these years.   

 

Phil watches her with a wary glare until she’s left the room.  Once she’s gone, he turns the full force of his concern on Clint again, stepping close to the bed.  “Are you _sure_ you’re okay?” 

 

The corners of Clint’s mouth quirk up a bit and then he settles back down into his pillows.  “Yeah.  I think I am,” he sighs.  “I know I should be… I don’t know… mad as hell, I guess, but… I’m having a hard time coming up with an angle to argue her logic.” 

 

Phil’s eyes search his for a moment and Clint knows that he’s looking for any sign that his thoughts aren’t his own.

 

“There’s only one way to know if she’s telling the truth,” Clint says quietly, and Phil’s eyebrows furrow in confusion.  Clint sighs.  “Ask the question, Phil.”

 

Realization breaks on Phil’s face, and after a few seconds of reluctance, he does.  “Are you ready to talk me through it?”

 

“Fuck, no,” Clint answers.  “But I will,” he adds, smiling a little as he knows he echoes his words from a few days before. 

 

“When you’re ready,” Phil completes his part of the ritual.

 

The first time Clint debriefed Coulson about what happened on the Raft, his words were rushed and impatient as he tried to get through the report as quickly as possible.  He had no trouble describing the horror of what had happened.  Though the details spilled out of him almost uncontrolled, he spoke in a monotone, giving no part particular emphasis or importance.  He described how the asshole guard had looked at Wanda, then repeated every invective he’d hurled.  He articulated what it was about each of the five guards that made him wary and concerned.  And then he detailed for Phil exactly what the guards had done to him.  He didn’t particularly want to, but he’s talked to enough shrinks to know that he needed to acknowledge what happened to him if he was ever going to get to any point of moving beyond it.  He talked nonstop for twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling the entire time, resolutely rasping out the story without wavering or faltering.  It was painful as fuck – both emotionally and physically - to say the words to Coulson, but Clint did it regardless, because they both knew it was necessary.  When he finished, he finally turned his gaze back to Phil, to find him ashen-faced and registering such heartbreak, that Clint had had to close his eyes against it. 

 

The worst thing about all of this was the look he had put on Phil’s face in that moment. 

 

He takes a deep breath and looks right at Phil.  “Ross showed up at the airport.  Asshole…” he starts.  He tries to recite the events in the same way he did the first time, doing his best to choose the same words and the same progression.  After working together for years, he and Phil have a short-hand for this kind of thing; he’d used it the first time around and he’s using it again.  In some ways, it’s harder this time and in others, it’s not. 

 

It’s harder because the memories aren’t as clear, and if his words are halting, it’s because he’s searching for the right ones.  Some of the details are difficult to catch hold of and it takes more effort to recall the order of events; he has to stop more than once to try to piece together his thoughts.  He works hard, though, to relay as many details as he can, hoping for confirmation that, painful as the memories may be, he still has them all.

 

It’s easier, though, because the memories he has _are_ more distant and dim.  They don’t carry the sharp edge of torment that they seemed to just a short while ago.  The words are easier to say; his body isn’t tensing with stress and anxiety as he says them. 

    

Thirty minutes later, Phil stops the recorder on his tablet.  “Okay, we’re done,” he says quietly, and the mix of restrained horror and relief on Phil’s face tell Clint all he needs to know.  Wanda hadn’t lied; his memories are intact. 

 

“You know.  She’s right.  Or maybe Sam is right,” Clint says tentatively.  “I guess I still remember everything, but, I don’t know, it’s just… not as hard to think about it as it was before.”  He flashes Phil a brief, uncertain smile. 

 

“I can’t condone it, Clint,” Phil says adamantly, his face still registering anger.  “I don’t like her messing with my head and I like her messing with yours even less.”

 

“I know.  I get that.  But we brought her into this thing with the Avengers and asked her to help, and that’s what she’s trying to do.”

 

Phil stares at him for a moment.  “She’s dangerous,” he finally says.

 

Clint shakes his head.  “No, she’s not,” he scoffs.  “Not to us,” he amends.

 

“She is,” Phil insists.  “And if she’s not careful she’s going to end up with another collar around her neck…”

 

“Don’t you _dare_ …!” Clint barks at him.

 

“ _I_ wouldn’t.  But someone else would.”

 

“Promise me, Phil…” Clint demands darkly.

 

“I promise,” he tells Clint without hesitation.  “And you promise me that you’ll be careful with her.”

 

“I don’t need to be careful…”

 

“Yes, you do.  She’s already been inside your head – both our heads – and she’s got no remorse about it.”

 

“Phil.  You don’t know her like I do - didn’t know her when we first found those kids.  You didn’t see her before.  Her powers were out of control.  _She_ was out of control.  She’s different now.  She just explained her reasoning and it’s sound.  She thought about it and made a decision and then took tactical action.”

 

“Clint,” Phil sighs.  “You can’t just excuse what she did because you see yourself in her…”

 

Something flares inside Clint.  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he snaps angrily.

 

“She was an orphan… preyed upon, abused…” Phil points out.

 

 _“That’s not what this is!_ ” Clint yells at him, then grimaces at the spark of pain in his throat. 

 

“Clint, you’ve got to face the fact that she might not be as controllable as you think she is,” Phil argues back. 

 

“I’m not _trying_ to control her!” Clint roars, bringing a quick hand up to his throat.  Phil starts to step closer but Clint gives him a look that dares him to and he backs off.   “Jesus, Phil,” he whispers painfully, his voice cutting in and out.  “Everyone her whole life did that to her.  I’m trying to help her take her control _back_.  To understand what she could be, just like you did for me.  She’s an Avenger, Phil.  You have to trust that.  Just like you trusted me.”

 

Phil lets out a loud, frustrated breath, firming his lips on the exhale, his face morphing into that look of exasperation, worry and affection.

 

“Do you trust me, Phil?” Clint asks softly, already knowing he’s won.

 

“Jesus, Clint.  Of course I do.  You know I do.”

 

“Then trust me on this,” Clint asks.

 

“It’s not me she has to worry about,” Phil says resignedly after a moment.

 

“Don’t worry about Wanda, Phil.  I’ll keep her safe.”  As soon as he says it, he realizes it probably wasn’t the best thing he could say to Phil right now, so he changed tack.  “Hey, can you hand me the rest of that fruit?” he asks, sounding as casual as possible.  

 

Phil raises a discerning eyebrow at him.  “I know what you’re doing,” Phil says, but doesn’t hesitate to pick up the half-empty dish and give it to Clint. 

 

A tiny fissure of anxiety ripples through Clint as he takes the dish, but it dissipates quickly.  The fruit is weird, nothing he’s had before, but it’s sweet and delicious and its cool slipperiness soothes his over-taxed throat.  Clint gives Phil a triumphant smile and slowly spoons more of it into his mouth.

 

Phil rolls his eyes, but Clint sees the small upward curve of his lips.

 

“Just… be careful, Clint,” Phil asks of him.  “Please,” he adds, sounding almost plaintive.

 

“Always,” Clint tells him with a smirk.

 

AAAAAAAA

 

Wanda rounds the corner in the hall and slows her steps when she sees that Phil Coulson is standing in front of her apartment.

 

“Ms. Maximoff,” he acknowledges, blank face revealing nothing.

 

“Mr. Coulson,” she says warily, then gets her keys out to unlock the door.  It probably wouldn’t be the best idea to use her magic around him just now.  “What can I do for you?” she asks stiffly, opening the door and stepping into her small apartment.  He doesn’t follow, instead stands in the hall, just outside.  She turns around to face him.

 

“I don’t think we finished our conversation,” he tells her.

 

Wanda sighs.  “Fine.  Say what you have to say.”  She’s not afraid of him.

 

He watches her for a moment before he speaks, and his gaze is so penetrating that Wanda nearly shrinks from it.  Maybe she is a little bit afraid of him.  He glances each direction down the hall and then takes a step closer, moving into her personal space.  It takes every bit of will Wanda has not to take a step backward.  Coulson considers her for another second, then he gives her a deceptively bland smile.

 

“I think you’re dangerous,” he finally says, “but Clint sees something in you that he trusts.  He asked me to trust you, too, so I will,” he tells her, his voice smooth and cool.  “For now.  But know this, Ms. Maximoff,” he practically growls, his words suddenly clipped.  “If you ever mess with his head without his permission again, there will be hell to pay.  And don’t think that you are too powerful for me to get to you, because you have no idea what I am capable of, and there is no end to the misery I will rain down on you if you ever do anything to betray his trust or hurt him.”

 

Wanda blinks at him, stopping herself from swallowing because she doesn’t want him to see how he’s unnerved her.  “I would not betray him,” is all she can work herself up to saying, trying to make a renewed show of defiance.

 

He leans into her a tiny bit.  “That’s what I want to hear,” he says softly with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.  Then he takes a step backward into the hall, out of her space, and his face is a perfect mask again.        

 

“Is there anything else?” she asks him, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow, doing her best to sound unintimidated.  

 

“Yes, actually,” he answers a few loaded seconds later.  “I have a question for you.”

 

She cocks her head.  “Just one?” she asks, regaining her courage. 

 

Coulson’s face stays neutral.  “Yes.  Just one,” he responds.

 

Wanda waits for him to go on.

 

Coulson stares at her for a moment and she narrows her eyes at him.  He’s outwardly calm, and he’s very good at hiding what he’s feeling, but now that she's calmed a little, she can see beyond the surface.  He’s nervous - afraid of the answer to the question he wants to ask - but steeling himself to ask anyway. 

 

“Is it permanent?” he finally continues, his eyes boring into her. 

 

“What?” she asks, not grasping the intent of the question. 

 

“What you did to Clint’s memories,” he clarifies.  “Is it permanent, or might they return to their previous… intensity?” 

 

Wanda hesitates, searching his eyes for any sign of a trap.  “Yes, it’s permanent,” she guardedly tells him.

 

Coulson’s face never changes, and anyone else would say he doesn’t react, but she can _feel_ the wave of relief wash over him.  He lets out a soft exhale through his nose.  “Okay,” he jerkily nods his head up and down one time.  “Thank you, Ms. Maximoff,” he says, then turns and begins to leave.  He takes a few steps down the hall before half-turning.  “Have a pleasant evening,” he adds, not quite looking at her.  And then he’s gone.

 

She stares after him for a moment, stunned.  Because while he might have meant ‘thank you for answering the question’, or ‘thank you, you’re dismissed’, she’s pretty sure that what he was saying was, ‘thank you for helping Clint’. 

 

Wanda retreats a few more steps into her apartment and flicks her fingers at the door, a thin red wisp pushing it closed and locking it.  She moves to the window and watches as Coulson crosses the road in front of the building, no doubt headed back to the hospital.

 

A tentative smile forms on Wanda's face.  She’s pretty sure the two of them just reached an understanding. 

 

AAAAAAAA

 

** Epilogue: **

 

Phil stops in the doorway as he loosens his tie and just looks.  It’s a comforting sight.  Clint is lying on the bed and his eyes are closed.  He’s on his back, one hand resting lightly on his chest, the other curled loosely around his head; it’s a familiar pose.  Normally, Clint would have woken up already, with someone in the room like this.  But he’s been sleeping better these days, deeper, and not regularly disturbed by dreams.  His body is also in the last throes of recovery, and Phil knows the effort of multiple daily PT sessions wears him out. 

 

He looks good, though; healthy.  He’s gained back the weight and muscle mass, and even in the dim light of the room, Phil can see that Clint’s color is bright.   The last time Phil was here, the only physical remainders of what happened on the Raft were a couple of new, albeit small, scars on his face (lip, cheekbone), and a couple of lingering bruises:  a large (but shrinking) one on his back, where Phil knows one of the guards landed a steel-toed kick; and a quarter-sized one just under his left eye where a fist cracked his orbital bone.  His voice has a slight gravelly texture that it never did before; the doctors aren’t sure if it will ever go away because of scar tissue in his throat.  From his spot by the door, he can see the small discoloration is still there under his eye, and of course, the three red, scarred and slightly swollen fingers.    

 

Phil’s been gone for nearly three weeks this time.  SHIELD business is always harried, and with the reunified Avengers no longer fugitives, but still in negotiations with the powers that be, it’s crazier than ever.  It's looking hopeful that that will change soon.  He left the first time after Clint had been out of the hospital for five days, virtually shoved out the door by his intolerant partner.  It was hard to leave, but Clint was right, he didn’t _need_ Phil to stay.  He was able to get up and around on his own (if slowly and painfully) and he had others to check in on him and make sure he was okay.  This is the third time since then that he’s managed to get back to Clint, and each visit has been achingly short.  This time he figures he has two, maybe three days, before he’s probably called back into the field.  If they’re particularly lucky, they might have a little longer since they’re finally stateside again.  

 

After another moment of just watching, Phil quietly strips down to his t-shirt and boxers and slips between the sheets. 

 

Clint wakes and rolls onto his side to face Phil; there’s a disappointing foot of cold space between them.  “Hey,” Clint murmurs sleepily.  “When’d you get back?”

 

“About five minutes ago.”  It makes Phil exceptionally happy to see the affectionate grin on Clint’s face. 

 

“Everything go okay?” Clint asks, then sucks in a deep yawn.

 

“For a measure of okay,” Phil tells him.  No need to go into a lot of details about this particular crop of glowing mutants and how they found out a little too late that SHIELD icers didn’t seem to affect them.  Everyone’s okay and that’s all that really matters at the end of the day.

 

Clint raises his eyebrow and Phil waves him off as best he can, lying on his side like this.  “Everything’s good,” he reassures Clint and he can see him relax fractionally.  “How’re you?  How’s the hand?”

 

Clint lifts his right hand off the bed and holds it in front of Phil’s face.  He flexes it, slowly opening and closing it into a loose fist a couple of times.  “Better every day,” Clint says, and Phil looks past the hand to Clint’s eyes, making sure that there’s truth in the words.  There is. 

 

“Doing your PT?” Phil asks, just to be a smartass.  He knows Clint would never mess around with the future of his hand – that he takes the PT seriously and does every exercise (and then some) diligently every day, working himself to exhaustion sometimes.  That he’s dying to try out the shiny new Vibranium bow leaning in the corner of the room, but he won't until his hand is capable of getting everything he can out of it.  It’s the self-imposed carrot that he’s been working toward for nearly three months.

 

“Yes, Sir,” Clint huffs, and then slides closer to Phil, filling the cold void between them.  He presses their chests together and slots one leg between Phil’s, and without stopping, he tips his head slightly to the side and presses a soft, lingering kiss to Phil’s mouth. 

 

Phil responds in kind, carefully not pushing for more than Clint wants to give.  Clint’s always needed that - to be allowed to take the lead and set the pace.  Phil has a feeling that the same thing that drives this need in Clint lives in Natasha, too, and he suspects it’s what didn’t allow the two of them to work as an intimate couple.  But Phil’s never had a problem with it, and he also meant what he’d told Clint in that hospital all those weeks before – the only thing that matters to him is that Clint is alive and in his life.  So he’s content to lie here and savor the gentle kisses.

 

Clint breaks the kiss and tips his forehead to rest against Phil’s.  “Mmm… I missed you,” he sighs with his eyes closed and nuzzling his nose around Phil’s before dipping back down for another kiss, harder this time, and after a few seconds, slipping his tongue inside.

 

Phil jolts at the unexpected advance, breaking their connection.  “Sorry,” he says, and Clint pulls back a little and blinks.  Phil flushes and he knows he looks sheepish.  “Sorry,” he says again.  “I just wasn’t expecting…”

 

“Phil,” Clint says firmly, and when Phil looks at him, he can see humor dancing in his eyes. 

 

Phil laughs a little, unbelievably relieved to see the familiar spark that hasn’t _quite_ been there since the Raft – close, but not quite _._   “Clint,” he deadpans, for lack of anything better.  They’re still really bad at the feelings stuff.

 

“You said whatever I want, whenever I want it,” Clint reminds him, moving back in to kiss Phil again.  Not that Clint needs to remind him.  That entire conversation – and the rage it can still ignite within him when he thinks about it – are never too far from his mind and he’s determined that _someday,_ Clint will actually believe that he never needs to worry about Phil leaving. 

 

“I remember,” he somehow manages to say around Clint’s tongue.

 

“Yeah?  Well... I want,” Clint mumbles into Phil’s mouth, then deepens the kiss, pulling Phil’s tongue into his mouth and sucking.

 

Phil gasps and then feels a smile flicker on Clint’s lips before he turns more serious attention into kissing Phil.  A second later Clint loosely grabs hold of Phil’s hand and slides it down between his legs where Phil finds Clint’s cock already half-full.  Clint keeps his hand over Phil’s, rubbing both gently up and down and it’s not long before Clint’s completely hard. 

 

“You want?” Phil asks a little bit breathlessly as he pulls back a minute later, wanting to be sure.  _Needing_ to be sure.

 

Clint nods slowly.  “Yeah, I want…” The hunger in Clint’s voice sends the blood rushing to Phil’s cock, but the hunger in his eyes tells him everything he needs to know.  And as Clint rolls them over, eyes smiling, caging Phil between his arms and dropping his mouth down into another kiss, teasing and wet, the last small knot that’s resided in Phil’s chest for the past 12 weeks, finally loosens and disappears altogether.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty much the end of the story (in case the epilogue didn't give that away), but there will be one more BRIEF chapter that will be sort of an "end-of-credits" kind of scene. It will feature a surprise cameo and answer that one last question that's hanging out there. Should be posted soon.
> 
> Thanks for reading. Feedback makes me very happy. : )


	10. End of Credits Scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the actual fic really came to fruition last chapter, this chapter should be viewed as more of a mid-credits or end-of-credits bonus scene (in keeping with the MCU tradition), and features a surprise cameo. The events found herein would take place in the hospital at an indeterminate time after Phil and Clint find out about the guards, either shortly before or after the denouement scene between Clint, Wanda and Phil. Please see author’s notes at the end for further explanation.
> 
> Most grateful thanks to KippyVee for betaing this entire monster of a fic when she doesn't even have any knowledge or interest in this fandom - I'm working on her, though! ; ) 
> 
> And thank you to Lexx_Ishi, who was a great cheerleader throughout and also offered great feedback on most of the chapters, and to Singing Wolf who gave early and valuable feedback. You guys are awesome! : D
> 
> I'm making this a gift to dentalfloss for a few reasons, because: without her initial, and on-going encouragement, I'm pretty sure I never would have undertaken this whole thing; she let me play in her sandbox; and I think I totally own her a gift of many-thousands of words.

 

This one is bad. 

 

It’s not just Clint there this time it’s Wanda there too and I'm sorry and they’re holding him down so he can’t get to her and help her and that asshole guard has got his hands all over her and he knows it’s a dream but they’re hurting her hurting him and his mind is yelling that it’s just a fucking dream and _WAKE UP_   but there’s that fucking morphine and he can’t pull himself out and they’ve got Wanda and I'm sorry I'm sorry and she’s screaming even though that fucking collar is still around her neck so she can’t scream and oh god Wanda I’m sorry and there are hands on him holding him down and it’s just a dream but they’re pushing and pushing and pushing and they’ve all got their hands on her and on him and _don’t you fucking touch her_ and-

 

“Shhh, shhh… wake up, Hawkeye... it’s okay… it’s just a dream… wake up, Hawkeye…” a gentle voice croons to him and Clint hears a harsh whimper tear from his own throat as he surfaces.  He’s still half battling the dream and breathing hard and he’s got morphine in his system so he’s groggy and he isn’t really sure if he’s awake or asleep and it feels like someone is… petting his head?   

 

“You’re back, aren’t you?  I think you’re back,” a familiar voice sing-songs to him.

 

Clint cracks an eye open for a brief second and – sure enough – Wade Wilson is leaning over him, his face just inches from Clint’s.

 

“Stop petting me!” he growls roughly, squirming a little, then stopping because he still can’t move around much without stabs of pain jarring his body, even with the morphine.

 

Wade ignores him – typical – and the gentle hand continues to stroke:  down his head, back to the top, down his head, again and again.  “You look awful,” Wade says, sounding almost cheerful, but he also sounds farther away so at least he probably stood up and got out of Clint’s face.  “You really should try to stay out of the way of people’s fists, Hawkeye,” he adds helpfully, as though Clint intentionally walked into a fight. 

 

Whatever.

 

Clint opens his eyes fully and glares at Wilson, turning his head on the pillow so Wade has to stop petting there.  Of course, Wade’s never that easily deterred and he just strokes a different part of Clint’s head instead.  Clint grunts in frustration and tries to bat the offending hand away from him, but Wilson just uses his other hand to, gently but firmly, push it back down to the bed and hold it there. 

 

Clint’s pinned, and the _idea_ of panicking flashes through his brain, but the actual panic never materializes. 

 

“You’re crabby when you’re hurt,” Wade points out.

 

Clint exhales a frustrated breath.  “Yeah, well, we can’t all have super healing factor,” he grumbles, giving in to the petting and closing his eyes again.  It feels kinda nice, actually – but he’ll never admit that to Wade, so he scowls to keep up the front.

 

“I know,” he hears Wade say quietly.  “I’m sorry,” he adds, and Clint flicks his eyes open and blinks in surprise at the genuine sadness he sees in Wade’s expression.

 

“I’m fine, Wade.”  Clint clears his throat.  “You don’t need to worry.”  His words still come out rough.   

 

“Oh, I’m not _worried_ ,” Wade tells him, sounding cheerful again.  “I just came to visit.  That’s what besties do for each other.”

 

Clint’s actually kind of touched by that, since Wakanda’s pretty fucking far from pretty much everywhere.  “Uh… thanks,” he tells his… friend.  “So, uh, how’d you find us?”

 

Wade smiles at him and cocks his head.  “You’re adorable, you know that?”

 

Right.  He should know better than to think he’d ever get a straight answer from Deadpool.

 

Clint’s still pretty groggy with drugs swimming in his veins, so he just grunts and closes his eyes again and settles into the petting some more.  Wade doesn’t say anything for a long time, but he hums tunelessly and keeps stroking Clint’s head.  Clint really hopes no one comes into his hospital room and sees this because he knows he would never live it down.

 

“I used to have the dreams, too,” Wilson says softly after a few minutes. 

 

Clint stiffens at the reminder before relaxing again.  He keeps his eyes closed, though, and sucks in a breath, holding it; Clint thinks maybe they’re having one of their “moments” and those are always a little awkward.

 

“They got a lot better after I killed that bastard,” Wade says quietly, though sounding chillingly cogent.

 

Clint recognizes these exchanges they sometimes have with each other as strangely intimate gifts, rooted in Wade’s unshakable attachment to him (that Clint has – bizarrely - found he kind of reciprocates).  But they’re fragile moments that neither of them is entirely comfortable shining a light too closely on, so Clint keeps his eyes closed and stays quiet.

 

Wade doesn’t say anything else, and soon, the rhythmic touches lull Clint back toward the sleep he never fully shook in the first place.  He feels his breathing get deeper and then accidently lets a small sigh of contentment slip out of him.  Damn it.

 

He’s nearly gone when there’s a soft hum close to his head again.  “No more bad dreams, Hawkeye,” Wade coos gently in his ear.  “I took care of them for you.  They’re _aaaallll_ gone…”

 

Clint’s eyes snap open.  Well.  That answers that question.

 

“Shh, shhh,” Wilson whispers, petting Clint fractionally harder as though to settle him. 

 

He throws another glare at Wade since Clint hadn’t even said anything.  But then his eyelids feel so heavy that even though he wants to keep them open, they slide closed again of their own volition.  He tries to make a discontented noise but isn't really successful.

 

“That’s right, Hawkeye.  You can sleep now… they’re dead… no more nightmares… sleep, Hawkeye...”

  

Wade sounds sane, and serious, and quite frankly, terrifying; but somehow, Clint lets go of consciousness more readily than he has in days.

 

The next time he wakes - slowly rousing from blissfully dreamless sleep - Wade’s not there, nor is there any tangible indication that he ever was, and Clint's not entirely sure if any of it even happened, or if he hallucinated the whole thing.

 

 

_**FIN** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know... WTF!... where did Wade Wilson come from?! 
> 
> The Clint/Wade Wilson relationship in this chapter is based on the characterizations found in dentalfloss’s AWESOME fic: “In Wade We Trust (We Are So Screwed)”, which you can find [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2578418/chapters/5738156).
> 
> If you've read that story (I can only hope I did it justice), this chapter will make a lot more sense - If you haven’t read it, go, now and read it. It’s FANTASTIC! Seriously...
> 
> Yes, dentalfloss graciously gave me permission to play in her sandbox, but this, IN NO WAY, should be considered a sequel to, or continuation of, her story. I just sort of co-opted her Clint/Wade friendship as part of my head-canon for these characters and this scene popped into my head one day and I liked the way it could fit into the story so I ran with it, and she let me. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read this fic, left kudos and/or comments. This was my first foray into MCU fic and I was nervous as hell, so I appreciate your kindness. I learned a lot with this fic – like, for instance, quit thinking that a fic will only take you a few weeks to write – lol! I worked on this monster almost daily for 6 months, and still felt rushed sometimes. I suspect that the way I structured this fic, you do need to read it more than once – or at least all at once – to get the back and forth references (there are a lot). I didn’t do that on purpose, it just came out that way organically, but now in retrospect, I see that if you read each chapter as I posted, you probably missed/forgot a lot of the details that connect and inter-weave them (hell, I forgot a lot of them and had to continually reread and correct my continuity errors - lol!). Sorry 'bout that.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and if you're inclined, I do love to hear what you think, cuz reader feedback is, ya know, awesome...  
> : )
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at teeelsie-posts.tumblr.com. Feel free to send messages or asks over there!

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings: This fic contains graphic and brutal depictions of gang rape, as the event occurs and then again later in flashback. There are two instances of flashbacks, one very brief and one that is longer and more graphic. This fic contains violent physical assault, including: electrical shock with a taser, beating, strangulation/asphyxiation, and bludgeoning. This fic also includes the non-consensual mind-fuckery of two characters, though it is good-intentioned. Also included is very brief, non-specific and non-graphic, implied child sexual abuse. A character also experiences a panic attack in this fic.


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